


You've Done All the Things That Could Kill You Somehow

by Swordy



Series: You've Done All the Things... [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Broken Bones, Broken Dean, Caring Sam, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Malnutrition, Mental Breakdown, Mute Dean Winchester, Permanent Injury, Phobias, Post-Purgatory, Psychological Trauma, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4622622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After eventually finding a ritual that worked, Sam has sprung Dean from Purgatory, but there are a couple of problems: one, Dean's re-appeared in an alleyway in London and two, he's so broken physically and mentally that he's been classed as a 'vulnerable adult' and has been placed under the guardianship of Social Services. When Sam arrives at the hospital he quickly realises that broken bones are the least of his worries...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has history, which I feel the need to explain. It started in the season 7 hiatus as a fill on mad_server's Season 7 Finale Meme for a prompt left by i_speak_tongue who requested Sam busting Dean loose from Purgatory with a ritual, which initially he thinks hasn't worked until he gets a phone call from the other side of the world. She requested 'terribly banged up Dean' and a reunion scene so I started writing and forgot to stop. I hope I produced something that filled the prompt adequately, even if it's several years too late.
> 
> Since the fic seemed to be growing into something of a reasonable length I decided to work on it for the 2012 spn_gen_bigbang. It got claimed, but suffered an artist malfunction and has languished on my hard drive ever since. When it was re-submitted this year, I was thrilled that not one, but two amazing artists stepped up as pinch hitters. Their art... well, you've just gotta see it. I'm in their debt for the incredible pieces they've done for this fic, as well as being utterly lovely to work with. Please, please, please stop by at their masterposts to view the full-sized art and show them your appreciation, which can be found here:
> 
> Thruterryseyes' art - http://thruterryseyes.livejournal.com/44659.html  
> Sienna Vie's art - http://siennavie.livejournal.com/59011.html
> 
> Thank you also to the wonderful rince1wind who betaed it what seems like a lifetime ago. After some last-minute alterations, any remaining errors are mine. Title is taken from 'Life Starts Now' by Three Days Grace. Feedback is always massively appreciated and, due to the length of time since I first wrote it, there's now a prequel and two sequels that will appear at some point in the future.

**THEN**

He gave up running a long time ago.

However fast he runs there is always something that can run faster, and even _he_ knows when to cut his losses. He starts to do a quick assessment of which part of him hurts most, but gives up when it appears all of his body parts are trying their hardest not to be left out. There’s wetness on his back, but he’s long since abandoned trying to figure out whether it’s sweat or blood. It’s usually both.

His stomach growls and he mentally tells it to shut the fuck up. Perpetual hunger has been a feature of his life since Cas first woke him up and promptly disappeared, leaving him alone in this god-forsaken shit-hole of a nightmare. He can always find just enough food to sustain life, but never quite enough to sate his hunger.

He came to the conclusion early on that that’s how this place works. Everything is _just enough_ and _not quite enough_ at the same time. He bleeds enough to cause pain and loss of consciousness, but not enough to die of blood loss. He runs (back in the days when this seemed a viable option) just fast enough to outrun one threat, but not fast enough for another. This place, it seems, is just one huge exercise in a lingering, hideous existence designed to kill the emotion of hope stone dead.

He’s certain anyone who’s had the misfortune to find himself here would agree that Purgatory proves there _are_ worse things than death. Hell was a constant cycle of dying and being brought back; Purgatory doesn’t even have _that_ basic variation. It’s just being here, in the perpetual darkness, _existing_ ; the same followed by more of the same.

He listens for a moment and it appears the imminent threat has passed. The guttural breathing and stench of _monster_ seems to be moving away and days when he gets this lucky may as well be classed as his fucking birthday.

He wonders if his birthday’s passed yet. He could be thirty-four now, or even forty-four for all he knows.

He feels about seventy-four.

OoOoO

Despite the general tedium, Purgatory has a knack of coming up with creative ways to kick a man when he’s down. Take the alliances for one, something that can only be described as a necessary evil.

He hadn’t been here long when he discovered that sometimes two heads are better than one (or three heads, depending on the creature). For instance, once he found himself working alongside a shifter in order to see off a nest of vampires. Then the creature had turned around and tried to take his head off. Thanks for fucking nothing.

The worst had been the djinn. Already nursing a broken wrist, if he hadn’t allowed the djinn to back his play, he’d have had his brain sucked dry by an attacking wraith. With the wraith gone, to where he didn’t fucking know or care, he and the djinn had studied each other for a moment, nodded a grudging yet grateful thanks and then gone their separate ways, or so he’d thought.

Shortly after that Sam got him out. A coincidence, yes, but at the time he was so fucking relieved to be _out_ that he hadn’t really stopped to think it could be anything other than reality. It wasn’t even like his life was so perfect he was suspicious of it; he was home, sure, but his wounds and broken bones hadn’t gone away, he and Sam were still effectively homeless and hunted, and Sam clearly wasn’t firing on all mental cylinders.

Only when a skinwalker bested the djinn that had captured him and ignored the half-dead human in its meal’s den had he woken from the coma. He’d lain there for hours, his body drained and weak while his emotions curdled steadily into a fury like no other because, let’s face it, falling for a djinn _again_ is a rookie error.

The rookie errors have become more frequent as his will to survive has waned, like a neon light blinking on and off until it eventually goes out altogether. His mind is fleeing too, which is possibly even more frightening because, let it be said: Dean Winchester isn’t afraid of dying, but the thought of going out without his marbles scares the shit out of him.

He prays for an escape even though he thinks he’s a big fucking hypocrite to ask anything from the Big Guy upstairs, but the neon is buzzing more loudly and the blinking is getting more frequent. Eventually he can’t put a coherent thought together and stops praying. He could be praying for a chicken dinner for all he knows.

When salvation comes, he doesn’t recognise it for what it is but by that point both his will and his mind are too far gone to care anyway; just so long as it’s over. 

****

OoOoo

**NOW**

After they visited Scotland to dig up the grave of one Fergus Roderick McLeod, Sam had never envisaged they’d go back to the United Kingdom. The British Isles has its own fair share of ghosts and demons, but they have to draw the line somewhere. Dean might often _feel_ like they need to save the entire world, but if it involves air travel he can usually be persuaded otherwise.

The call Sam received that morning had put paid to their status as one-time-only visitors.

Heathrow airport is bustling and it frays his nerves as he waits for the carousel to relinquish his bags. Once he put the telephone down all those hours ago he’d wanted nothing more than to run for the door, but something had told him to stop and pack. It’s as if the part of him that knows nothing ever goes right for them had gently suggested he might not just be able to scoop Dean up and leave.

He’d packed enough clothes for a few days, then thought _we’re Winchesters_ and packed for a whole week.

Outside the airport he jumps into a black cab. The driver takes one look at his stormy expression, enquires about his destination, then says nothing more. While they inch along the London Orbital in the five o’clock traffic Sam thinks about the ritual he’d performed, the initial rush of _finally_ figuring out how to bust Dean free, then the crushing blow when it apparently hadn’t worked.

So much had been riding on it – _it’s going to fucking work, Dean, it has to_ – he hadn’t really allowed himself to think about what he would do if it didn’t. He’d spent the next week in a depression so deep it would have been classed as suicidal if he hadn’t already been thinking about hunting down another ritual to try.

When his phone had rung, he’d ignored it at first. When it stopped, then started again mere seconds later, he’d pulled it over to glance at the display. _Blocked number_. He’d pushed the phone away, not in any frame of mind for a conversation about the great offers he could get from a rival cell phone company or the perils of living without life insurance.

When it rang again, less than a minute later, he’d felt a surge of irritation that quickly gave way to rage. He answered it for spite, figuring telling _someone_ to fuck off might make him feel a little better if nothing else.

The voice at the other end had sounded surprised, breathless, and relieved all in one go. It had said his name before he could even issue his dismissal, lucky really since it turned out to be the call that changed everything.

_I’m calling because there’s an unidentified patient in University College Hospital in London and your name is listed in his phone contacts._

The rest had been a whirlwind of frantic planning and booking, with no one to tell where he was going except Sheriff Mills, and he’d phoned her just because he’d had to tell _someone._

_I’ve got him back. It worked after all._

_Is he okay?_

_They said his injuries weren’t life-threatening._

He’d clung to that reassurance, repeating it like a mantra. Dean was alive; everything else was just unnecessary detail. Two hours into the flight he’d been hit with a wave of panic so intense that the guy sitting next to him looked up from his book and asked if he was okay.

Sam nodded yes, but the answer was really that he was so far from fucking okay, they might as well be in different solar systems. For the months Dean had been gone he’d never really allowed himself to think about what his brother was going through in Purgatory. He knew that plowing through the different potential scenarios in his head would probably stop him from functioning and working to find a solution.

The plane journey, however, had given him several hours and several thousand miles to think about it and the result hadn’t been pretty. Dean had come back from Hell happy, whole and healthy – well, not _happy_ exactly, but physically in one piece at least; Purgatory could be in another league entirely. He realised then that although the hospital had said _not life-threatening_ there was still a world of potential disaster between that and ‘okay’.

When they landed in London he’d all but run for the terminal building, the knowledge that he and Dean were now miles rather than dimensions apart almost too hard to bear.

OoOoO

Over an hour later he pays the cab driver and steps out onto Euston Road. Behind him, the traffic passes by, its roar reduced to a whimper by the time of day as he studies the hospital signs for his destination.

The smartly-dressed woman on the front desk gives him directions, whilst subtly sizing up his weary-traveller look and the large bags planted at his feet. Her eyes are kindly, as if she appreciates anyone who might travel thousands of miles to be with a loved one in their time of need.

He finds the ward guarded by another reception desk. The nurse seated behind the computer there looks up at him sharply, but when he explains why he’s here, her expression completely transforms. He feels stupid and dishevelled with his bags, like he should have checked into a hotel and cleaned himself up first, but then she offers to put them in the staff room while he waits for the doctor. She introduces herself as Rachel Peters, the ward sister.

He declines her offer of coffee. His stomach is churning so badly he’s not sure the organ would know what to do with the liquid when it got there and despite his weariness, he’s plenty awake.

He stands as the doctor enters, propelled from his seat by nerves. The physician, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in his early fifties, introduces himself as Dr. Williams. He invites Sam to sit after they’ve shaken hands and agreed that Sam will just be ‘Sam’ and not ‘Mr. Smith’. Rachel the nurse has also stayed. She offers him a sympathetic, yet supportive, smile while the doctor scans Dean’s notes.

“Well, I must say, Sam, we were very relieved to reach you. When your brother was admitted, he had no identification on him except his mobile phone. Fortunately the police tech guys got it working; otherwise I’m not sure how we’d have ever found you.”

Sam nods, certain Nokia would be very impressed to know one of their cell phones had survived a trip to Purgatory. Worryingly, Dr. Williams seems unsure where to begin and Sam finds himself longing for his father and his habit of no-nonsense cataloguing of injuries post-hunt. _Lacerations to scalp, three cracked ribs, split lip, possible concussion. Sam, why are you just standing there? Get the first aid kit, now._

“Sam... when one of my staff spoke to you, you seemed surprised that your brother was in London. Do you have any idea what he’s been doing recently?”

He maintains a look of innocence, fuck knows how, and shakes his head. “Dean has been missing for several months and I’ve been looking for him this whole time. Can you tell me about his injuries?”

The doctor nods and flips through a couple of pages in the notes he’s holding.

“Well, he has some broken bones, but none of them are recent breaks. It doesn’t appear that they’ve ever been set so they’ve not healed well. The worst appears to be his right hand. All of his fingers have been broken - several times, it seems. He’s unable to straighten them. The x-ray also showed a bad break at the wrist that really should be re-broken and set. With such a bad break there is a possibility of nerve damage though, so even with surgery he might not regain full function.

“We also ran a range of blood tests when he was first admitted. The only result of significance was the liver function tests that indicate he may have some scarring of his liver.”

He pauses and studies Sam for a moment, as if gauging whether this last piece of information is news without having to ask if his brother has any issues with alcohol. “We’d need to do further tests to confirm this, though.”

“Is there more?” Sam asks, sensing that, despite the bleak picture, the doctor is working his way up to something worse than broken bones.

Dr. Williams glances at the ward sister, who mirrors the physician’s unhappy expression.

“I’m sorry, Sam. Wherever your brother has been for the last few months, it’s clear that life hasn’t been kind to him. He’s significantly underweight; his entire body is covered in injuries of varying age and severity.” The doctor’s professional demeanour slips as he shakes his head in disbelief. “He looks as if he’s been savaged by wild animals, for want of a better description.”

Sam’s heart stutters in his chest. He finds his voice, but it’s ragged, like his emotions.

“Has he said anything about what’s happened to him?”

Another shared glance between the medical personnel.

“I’m afraid your brother hasn’t spoken a word since he was admitted.”

Enough. _Enough._ “I need to see him.”

Fortunately he meets no resistance to his demand. They accompany him through the ward to a set of double doors marked ‘ _Isolation_ ’. He looks at the ward sister, silently querying why Dean would be in there. There’s been no mention of possible infectious diseases, although fuck knows what he could have picked up in Purgatory if he’s been so badly injured.

“We wanted to put him somewhere quiet,” she explains. “He can’t tolerate loud noises and, wherever he’s been, he’s been unaccustomed to any light.”

There it is again: _wherever he’s been_. Sam has no answers for them because aside from a location that he’s pretty sure won’t show up on Google Maps, he can’t tell them anything about what Dean might have experienced during the months he’s been gone.

“Is there anything else I should know?” he asks, his hand resting on the door and it’s consuming all of his willpower to wait for an answer because he just wants to see his brother _now_.

The doctor sighs. “I’m sure you can gather from what we’ve told you, Sam, that whatever he’s been through he’s been extremely traumatised by it. I would advise you approach him with caution. It’s certainly been our experience anyway. That said, he’s received a light sedative in the last hour or so, so he should react more favourably.”

“Okay,” Sam says, then more to himself as he mentally steels himself for what he might find: “Okay.”

He tentatively pushes open one of the doors. Beyond is a large sterile room, dimly lit by an anglepoise lamp over a single bed.

The bed is empty.

He glances back at the doctor, who has clearly also seen the bed, but doesn’t appear unduly concerned. He takes that to mean this isn’t unusual, stores that information away to be horrified by it later, and steps into the room.

There’s no sign of Dean near the bed; Sam can see underneath it, past the mechanism that raises and lowers it and out the other side. Across the room from the bed are some units, presumably for storing medical equipment and, now his eyes have adjusted to the muted lighting, he realises there’s a pair of feet sticking out from the gap between the two cupboards.

He moves carefully along the opposite wall, hoping that, when he comes into Dean’s view, he won’t startle him and, _fuck_ , is he really thinking these things about _Dean?_ Closer now and he can see better that Dean has tucked himself into the impossibly small recess, his legs drawn up in front of him. Sam’s first thought is that despite everything Dean must have been through, he’s never forgotten their dad’s instruction that if you can’t fight, seek shelter and position yourself where you only have one side to defend.

Standing directly opposite, he crouches down and waits a beat, but Dean’s eyes are closed, his head resting against the unit. This gives Sam the opportunity to observe his brother unnoticed.

It’s a devastating view. His breath catches in his throat because _emaciated_ is the only word he can come up with when he looks at his brother’s body.

He realises the doctor’s assessment that Dean is ‘significantly underweight’ was probably for his benefit, an attempt to soften the blow for when he came face to face with the reality. Dean is a shadow of his former self and it’s almost as heartbreaking as the realisation that Dean obviously still thinks he’s in danger.

He’s dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, his bare flesh revealing a mass of wounds: burns, slashes, abrasions, bites, varying in age and severity, just as the doctor had said, but healed enough not to warrant dressing. Sam notices that Dean only has his left arm wrapped around his legs; his right is cradled awkwardly to his body, bent at the wrist, the fingers splayed and twisted against his chest.

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice is barely more than a whisper and he’s about to repeat himself when Dean’s head lifts away from the hard surface he’s been resting against. His face is gaunt, the lower portion covered with a poor example of a beard. Dean’s never really been very successful at cultivating facial hair and the patches that _have_ grown look like they’ve been hacked at with a knife. His hair has grown too, and it falls about his face in a manner that he’d normally be mercilessly taunting Sam for.

Their eyes meet and time stops for that moment, but if he’s hoping for a joyous reunion, he’s about to be disappointed. Dean frowns and then his expression crumples to one of abject defeat. His head drops and there’s a noise, like he’s crying but trying not to.

“Dean, it’s me,” Sam says, edging closer and he ignores the fact that he’s crying now as well. He glances back to check he won’t be overheard, but the doctor and the ward sister have stayed at the door. “I found a ritual, Dean. It worked; I got you out, Dean, I swear. You’re safe.”

Dean doesn’t stir, but Sam knows his brother will be aware that he’s moving closer. The fact that Dean doesn’t do anything to fend him off or try to get away is a huge plus, or at least he chooses to take it that way. When he’s close enough, he reaches out and rests his hand on Dean’s knee.

“I’m sorry it took so long, man,” he says, continuing in a voice that’s part soothing and part broken with despair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He doesn’t even think about how Dean might react. He hooks his other hand around his brother’s neck and pulls him into a hug. Dean doesn’t return the embrace, but he doesn’t fight it either, allowing Sam to hold him there in silence. Sam winces as he rubs up and down his brother’s bony back.

They stay that way for an indeterminate amount of time. The doctor and nurse don’t intrude. From the way Dean’s breathing evens out Sam knows his brother has fallen asleep in his arms. He holds his position until his long legs are cramping underneath him and he’s forced to move, but Dean doesn’t wake. Sam manages to get to his feet, still holding him. He’s painfully aware how light his brother’s body is as he transfers Dean to the bed.

When Dean is settled and covered with blankets Rachel appears at his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asks, the question more of a conversation opener, because the look on his face makes it pretty clear that he’s not. “I know this must be a shock.”

He wipes a hand across his face, meets her gaze and nods.

“Do you know about how he was found?”

She moves over to the units and brings out an IV bag. She attaches it to the port taped to the back of his brother’s good hand.

“He was found in an alleyway behind a row of shops in St. Pancras,” she says as she works. “The chef from one of the restaurants came outside for a cigarette and found him. He swears blind that he’d only been out there a minute before to throw some rubbish in the bins and hadn’t seen him, like he just appeared out of thin air.”

She moves to the end of the bed and makes a note on Dean’s charts before continuing the story.

“The police and paramedics were called, but from what I’ve been told it took them a while to get him out of there. They said they couldn’t get near him.”

She stops and looks straight at him, as if she’s gauging how her next words will be received.

“They said it was like trying to trap a wild animal. One of the paramedics managed to get close enough to sedate him, otherwise he might still be there now. Since he’s been here, we’ve been trying to keep things calm and quiet so we don’t have to do anything by force. There’s only Dr. Williams, me and one other nurse he’s let near him so we’re trying to keep to that as much as possible.”

She gestures to the items on the bedside cabinet. “We’ve given him a pen and paper just in case he wants to communicate with us that way, but so far he hasn’t written anything either.”

“Thank you,” he replies, glancing at his sleeping brother. “I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for him.”

“We’d do more if he’d let us. Hopefully that’ll change now you’re here.” She smiles. “Don’t worry though, all the overtime is _really_ useful.”

He likes her; she’s candid but friendly and she also obviously cares about her patient, which is his number one priority right now. He has a million questions he wants to ask, but he knows there’ll be time.

She leaves shortly afterwards, explaining that she needs to complete her ward rounds and get some sleep before starting her next shift tomorrow morning. At his concerned expression she assures him that Katie, the other nurse Dean has allowed to treat him, will be on the ward while she is gone. She brings him a chair, which is nowhere near the worst one he’s had to spend hours in, and then he’s alone, watching the rise and fall of his damaged brother’s chest and trying to process how the hell he begins to fix the damage that Purgatory has done.

His thoughts drift back over the conversation with Dean’s doctor. They’ve both had broken bones before, but they’ve always made sure to have them treated properly, knowing the long-term impact of badly healed injuries on a job like theirs. He wonders how much pain Dean was in, surviving one injury on top of another with no respite or medical intervention.

He thinks of the doctor’s comments about Dean’s blood tests. His brother’s drinking had increased significantly right before he’d disappeared, although if he’s honest, it had been building up long before that.

Possible scarring of Dean’s liver; he’d seen the doctor’s face and knows alcoholism will be where his mind had gone too, but if that’s the case then Dean’s misery can only have been compounded in Purgatory. Sam’s pretty sure from everything he’s read that it’s not the kind of place that has liquor stores on every corner. Dean would have been forced to endure alcohol withdrawal on top of Christ only knows what.

He wonders then about Castiel. Once he realised that they’d both disappeared in the blast and then, later on, managed to ascertain that Dean was in Purgatory, he’d comforted himself that Dean might not be alone there. Seeing his brother now, though, he can only assume that Dean was alone the entire time... or something had happened to Castiel in Purgatory.

Either way he knows it will have affected Dean, probably worse than any of his physical injuries. Until Dean tells him what happened though, Sam knows he only has his grim imagination to fill the gaps. He doesn’t think he’s going to be able to sleep, but jetlag and the weariness of weeks and months spent trying to find a way to rescue Dean takes its toll. He’s out for the count before he knows it.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes several hours later with a jolt to find a pair of green eyes studying him. He desperately needs to stretch but he moves slowly, not wanting to alarm his brother.

“Hey, Dean,” he says with a warm smile. “How you doing, man?”

No response, aside from a quick blink. Dean’s body screams tension and he’s drawn his legs up in bed, so he’s sitting in the position Sam had found him in last night. He looks as if one wrong move will cause him to bolt and Sam’s just trying to figure out what to do next when the door opens behind him and a petite blond woman steps into the room with a broad smile.

“Morning, Dean,” she says cheerfully although she stays on the threshold for a moment, as if she’s giving him time to acquaint himself with her presence. She’s holding a breakfast tray and the sight makes Sam realise he hasn’t eaten anything since he was on the plane. She gives Sam a quick smile before walking towards them, placing the tray down beside the bed and moving to the empty IV that’s still attached to his brother.

“Shall I take this off you?” she asks when Dean’s blank expression slides over to her and the bag she’s holding. There’s no response and she’s clearly not expecting one, but the smallest movement of Dean’s arm towards her is enough to indicate his consent. Her smile broadens, like this is real progress and maybe, Sam thinks, it is.

“So, this is your brother?” she asks her patient as she works to disconnect the tubing. Dean’s gaze falls upon him again but it’s impossible to tell what his brother is thinking.

“I’m Katie,” she says, as if Dean has confirmed his identity.

“Sam.”

She grins and Sam thinks she’s probably around his age. “It’s good to meet you, Sam. Are you older or younger?”

“Younger,” he replies with a smile. “By four years.”

She finishes up and pushes the breakfast tray closer to Dean. Sam watches his brother look at it, making no move to take any of the food. Katie’s watching too, evidently processing this before she speaks again.

“Tell you what, Dean. How about I take Sam here and get him some breakfast? Maybe let him take a shower too? He can come straight back.”

Sam’s about to protest that he’s not leaving when something in her gaze tells him not to. He looks at Dean and waits for his brother to make eye contact, searching for any indication that Dean might not want him to leave, but the gaze remains blank.

“I’ll be right back, I swear,” he says, standing slowly and stretching. He glances at Katie, who nods and starts to make her way out. Once they’re beyond the double doors she smiles apologetically.

“Sorry about that. We’ve found he won’t eat if any of us are still in the room. I thought he might have with you there, but I guess we’ve still got to take things one step at a time.”

They both look back through the window to see Dean starting to pull the tray towards him with his one good hand. His body is still bleeding tension and he looks around as if he’s checking that no one else is there.

“It’s progress, though,” she continues. “At first he wouldn’t eat at all. We still give him extra nutrients by IV just in case he stops again.”

Once again, he’s overwhelmed by the patience and kindness the medical personnel are showing his brother. “Thank you. What you’re doing for him... It means more than you’ll know.” And it _does_ , because seriously? They can count on one hand the number of people they can turn to for support these days.

She smiles, sensing his frayed emotions rising to the surface. “Come on. I wasn’t kidding about getting you some breakfast.”

She takes him to the facilities that are provided for the relatives of patients who are here for the long haul, mainly those in intensive care. After he’s showered, she forces cereal, toast and coffee on him in the small kitchenette-break room. There are couches and a coffee table filled with dog-eared magazines, _Ideal Home_ and _Top Gear_ amongst the titles he spots as Katie rustles up the breakfast he doesn’t want but will undoubtedly feel better for once he’s eaten.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, Sam, but how long has Dean been missing?”

“Too long.” He gives a rueful smile, then adds, “Just over four months. I’ve been looking for him this whole time.”

“You’re close then?”

He nods. “We’re all each other’s got.”

His eyes keep going back to the door. She must notice, because once he’s finished, she says, “Let’s get you back to your brother,” and they head back down the corridor.

Almost immediately they run into Rachel. Her expression is serious and he can tell straight away that she’s been looking for them. His heart speeds up a little, but when she sees his worry her hands come up in a gesture of placation.

“Nothing’s wrong, Sam,” she says hastily. “I just needed to find you to tell you that the police called and we told them you were here. They’ll be arriving in about ten minutes. They want to speak to you about Dean.”

The news doesn’t slow his galloping heart much and he has to force himself to remember that even if he weren’t here under Frank Devereaux’s robust ‘Smith’ alias, the Winchesters surely wouldn’t be household names over here in the way their doppelgangers had made them in America. He can talk to them, tell them he doesn’t know anything, which isn’t exactly untrue, and hopefully they’ll be on their way and he can focus on getting Dean back home as quickly as possible.

“Okay,” he replies, “but I’m going back in to see Dean first. I promised him I’d be right back.”

Rachel nods. “I’ll let you know when they get here.”

Katie leaves to complete other duties; the ward is quiet, but Dean isn’t the only patient here. When Sam returns to Dean’s room, he remembers what the nurses did and opens the door slowly. The blinds are closed, but the sun has brightened the room and it casts his brother’s frailties in a new light. He swallows hard, trying to retrieve his voice from where it’s dropped into the pit of his stomach.

“Dean? Can I come in?”

Dean turns at his question, but the empty expression gives nothing away. Sam once again follows the nurses’ example and takes that as agreement. Sliding into the chair beside the bed he fixes Dean with a warm smile.

“I can only stay a few minutes because the police are coming to talk to me about what happened to you. I can’t see how they’re gonna have any leads and obviously I’m not going to be able to tell them anything. Once the doctor says you’re well enough, we’ll get out of here. Sound good?”

It must, he thinks, because Dean _hates_ hospitals. Dean makes no indication that he has any feelings on the subject so Sam continues the one-sided conversation, for his own benefit as much as anything.

“And it’s okay if you’re not ready to talk, Dean. Use the pen and paper if you need to tell me something.” There’s still no response from his brother.

“After I talk to the police, how about we get you cleaned up a little, huh? I don’t think I can do anything with your hair without any clippers but we can definitely fix that beard you’ve got going on.” He grins. “It’s definitely not my favourite look on you, man.”

He wonders whether Dean will allow him near with scissors and a razor. The thought is interrupted by the door opening behind them.

“Sam?” Rachel says. “The police are here.” She turns to Dean as she steps into the room. “Dean? How about we get you in the shower while Sam’s gone?”

The empty green stare fixes on him so he smiles. “That sounds like a really good idea. I won’t be long and then we can look at losing the ZZ Top look.”

There’s no sudden grab to keep him here so he heads to the door, glancing back in time to see Rachel helping Dean remove his t-shirt, the action complicated by either Dean’s reluctance to help or his physical inability to move his injured right arm away from his chest.

He finds the two uniformed policemen in the break room. They stand as he enters and introduce themselves. The older of the two, an Officer Baines, tells him he was there the night his brother was found. There’s a little small talk then the taking of basic biographical information, in which Sam gives Bobby’s as their home address. He prays they won’t dig enough to find out the house is no longer there, but it’s the first address that comes into his mind.

“So, Sam,” Officer Baines says in that cop-friendly voice that must be international. It doesn’t help that his accent sounds a little like Crowley’s. “You say your brother went missing over four months ago, but in the U.S., not here?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any idea how he ended up in London? Did he give any indication he was planning to travel when you last saw him?”

He shakes his head and it’s not hard to look stumped by the question because he genuinely doesn’t know the answer. “I have _no_ idea how he ended up here and no, he didn’t talk about travelling. My brother doesn’t like flying so I can assure you it’s as much a mystery to me why he’s here.”

The policeman glances at his colleague, who has obviously been designated note-taker. Sam wonders what the hell he’s writing because certainly none of this is making any sense.

“Do you have any other family members he might have talked to?”

“No. Our parents are dead and we don’t have any other siblings. It’s just the two of us.”

“Would you say his disappearance was out of character?”

“He travels around a lot but he usually calls. I guess that’s the part that was out of character.”

“Your brother,” Baines says. “Was he ever in the armed forces?”

Sam frowns at the sudden change of direction. “No. Why d’you ask?”

“Well, like I said, I was there the night he was found.” The officer pauses at the memory and shakes his head. “He was terrified and he fought like a tiger, but it wasn’t just lashing out. Has your brother been trained to fight, Sam?”

Sam nods, prepared to let a little of the truth bleed out. “Our father was a marine. We’ve both had some training.” He can sense the policeman’s frustration when he stops there, but none of this is really relevant and the more he says, the more he puts Dean and himself at risk.

The interview ends shortly afterwards with the policemen promising to call if they have any further information and Sam agreeing to do the same. Alone in the corridor he takes a brief moment to analyse what’s just happened. It’s clear they think there’s more to his brother’s story and they’re right, but whatever they’re hypothesising, it’s never going to come close to what really happened.

One thing he’s clear on is that he needs to get Dean away from all the attention, because when they give up trying to shove a square peg in a round hole, who knows what new theory they’re going to come up with and what agencies they may reach out to in the U.S. in order to facilitate their investigation?

Putting those worries aside for now, he finds Rachel and tells her what he’s going to try to do once he’s retrieved his razor and shaving cream from his bag. She finds him a pair of scissors he can use to trim away some of his brother’s unsightly beard and enquires how he thought the interview with the police went.

He shrugs. “They don’t have much to go on and I don’t think I’ve been able to give them any information that will really help them in any way.” He finally lays his hands on his shaving kit and swaps out the blade for a new one.

“No offense, but you don’t seem too worried, Sam.”

He pauses, realising how it probably looks. Mentally he can hear Dean snorting as he employs what his brother refers to as his ‘puppy-dog’ look.

“I guess there’s a part of me that isn’t,” he says, figuring he may as well be honest. “I just want to get Dean back home so we can focus on getting him better. A police investigation will just complicate things and I don’t think Dean needs that.”

She’s nodding, but there’s a sudden awkwardness to her expression that he picks up on immediately. She realises he’s seen it too.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I should have said sooner, but when Dean was first admitted, the police also alerted Social Services. By their assessment he’s classed as a ‘vulnerable adult’ because they feel he lacks the capacity to make decisions about his own wellbeing and could be at risk of abuse. At present I can’t say I disagree.

“He’s been assigned a social worker who’s currently responsible for making any decisions on his behalf. That’ll probably change now you’re here, but they might not let you assume that role if you want to try and take him home before he’s ready. They may argue you don’t have his best interests at heart.”

When he visibly bristles and looks about to hotly protest she adds, “ _I_ can see you do, Sam, but you’ll need to work with them to convince them you’re only going to do what’s best for Dean.”

He’s honest-to-God reeling now, because although it makes perfect sense for the authorities to do this when an unidentifiable man, clearly traumatised, appears out of nowhere, this is _his brother_ , who’s fought monsters and demons and averted the fucking apocalypse. Then he thinks about the blank stare and the clearly broken man trying to make himself as small as possible and his heart constricts painfully in his chest.

“Dean’ll be waiting for me,” he says. He gives her a tight smile and leaves before she can continue this conversation.

Dean’s eyes shoot to the door as he enters and Sam tells himself there’s a look of relief in his brother’s expression, though it might just be wishful thinking. He approaches slowly with his shaving kit in full view, that warm, reassuring smile fixed on his face despite the myriad things that are troubling him.

“Hey, man, you ready for that shave now?”

Although Dean is not hugging his knees as he was previously, he’s almost rigid with tension. Rachel was obviously successful in getting him to shower; his hair is wet and combed back from his face and he’s dressed in clean t-shirt and shorts. Sam can’t help but notice the parallel jagged scars that travel up Dean’s right leg from his ankle to just past his knee. _Claws_ , he thinks absently, remembering when he was a wide-eyed twelve-year-old watching his sixteen-year-old brother sew up a similar-looking wound on their father.

He places the shaving kit on the bed and goes over to the sink to grab a small bowl of water. He returns for some paper towels, which he brings back and places across his brother’s lap, where the hair will fall. The silence is intense, especially with Dean’s gaze burning into him from such a short distance. He ignores it to focus on the task in hand.

“You ready?” he asks with a smile. He allows Dean a moment to see the small pair of nail scissors in his hand. “I’m just going to trim the longer bits off first. It’ll make it easier to shave.”

He moves in and begins to snip at the wiry hairs on his brother’s lower face. Dean remains stock still but there’s a nervousness that lingers around him hinting that he could bolt at any moment and Sam’s pretty sure he stops breathing the whole time he’s working, just in case.

When he’s done he sits back and grins. “You’re looking better already,” he pronounces. “Ready for part two?”

Dean doesn’t seem to mind his touch as he applies the shaving foam, but once he starts with the razor his brother closes his eyes. He murmurs encouragement as he tilts Dean’s head to one side, then the other, then upwards, the scrape of the razor punctuating his words. Dean doesn’t attempt to stop him or pull away so, emboldened by this apparent success, he keeps working until he notices a tear slip from the corner of his brother’s eye.

“Dean?” he says gently, “Hey, I can stop if you want.”

He’s about to pull back when Dean’s good hand shoots out and grabs a handful of his shirt. It’s the most action he’s seen from his brother, who’s opened his eyes and is looking straight at him and this time he correctly interprets the look: Dean doesn’t want him to stop, but trusting Sam not to hurt him is almost more than he can tolerate.

They’ve both been in situations where the enemy has used the other’s face to inflict maximum torment and there’s obviously a part of his brother that’s not completely sure this is real. He wonders again about Purgatory, then finds himself thinking of Hell too before he forces himself to stop. No good _ever_ comes of re-tracing their steps down those dark paths.

“Okay, man. You’re doing good. Really good. We’re nearly done.”

It’s hardly the kind of shave that would feature on a Gillette commercial, but after the beard, it’s a serious improvement. Sam suddenly finds himself choked by his own emotions at having Dean just look a little more like the brother he lost several months ago. The fact that Dean let him do it despite his obvious fears is also not lost on him.

He spies a small mirror on the side and goes to get it. When he returns, Dean doesn’t make any move to take it off him so he angles it so his brother can see his own reflection.

“See? You look much better.”

He watches Dean reluctantly turn his attention to the mirror, like he’s genuinely frightened of what he might see there. Rachel’s words flood, unbidden, back into his mind. This Dean probably does lack the capacity to make his own decisions and would undoubtedly have been at risk of abuse should he have returned from Purgatory and landed in the clutches of someone who hadn’t seen fit to seek help from the authorities.

He’s pondering this when there’s a loud bang outside and Dean jumps like he’s been shot. The movement sends the mirror flying but Sam manages to catch it on its descent, mere inches before it hits the tiled floor and shatters into a million pieces. When he rights himself, Dean is no longer on the bed, but is beside it on the floor, his left arm hooked over his head in a vain attempt to shield himself from the threat.

In retrospect it wasn’t even that loud of a bang, but it’s clearly sent Dean into paroxysms of fear and the reality of their situation hits Sam like a wave at high tide. There’s no way he’s going to be able to get his brother back to the U.S. in the near future.

“Hey, Dean, it’s okay,” he says, putting the mirror out of harm’s way and scooting around the bed to where his brother is visibly shaking. He reaches out and grips Dean’s shoulder gently but firmly.

“Dean, look at me. It’s _okay_. It was just something in the street outside. I’ll go and look, okay?”

He moves to the window and parts the blinds. It’s difficult to see down to the street as they’re on the eighth floor, but when he presses his face to the glass he can see a delivery truck in the street with several people standing around and gesticulating at the cargo that appears to have fallen out of the back of it.

He paints on the smile as he returns to his position in front of his brother even though his insides are churning with rage. _What the fuck did you do to him, Purgatory?_

“It’s okay, man. It’s just a truck that’s spilled its load. Hey, you remember that truck that overturned when we were kids? Man, I’ve never _seen_ so much candy. It was like Christmas and our birthdays rolled into one and the driver was yelling at us to leave it alone but we’d already filled our pockets.”

He grins at the memory. “We kept it as a secret stash so Dad couldn’t be pissed with us. You remember?”

There’s no response to indicate whether Dean remembers or not but he’s stopped shaking, so that’s something at least. He’s further buoyed when Dean accepts his outstretched hand and allows Sam to pull him to his feet. They stand face to face for a long moment and when Dean’s eyes rise to meet his, he reaches out and puts his hands on his brother’s shoulders.

“We’ll get there, Dean, I swear,” he says, not exactly sure where ‘there’ is, but determined to show his brother that it’ll be one hundred percent a joint effort.

OoOoO

He discovers that Dean sleeps a lot and while his brother is napping he takes the opportunity to check his cell phone. There are a couple of messages from Sheriff Mills and, feeling guilty, he mentally calculates the time difference then dials her number.

“Sam,” she says in lieu of a greeting when she answers on the second ring. Her voice strikes a chord with him that takes him by surprise, like an unexpected pang of homesickness on a much anticipated trip and it takes him a moment to find his own voice to respond.

“Hey, Sheriff,” he says, knowing she’ll be making the face she always makes when he chooses that over ‘Jody’. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner---”

“Don’t be sorry, Sam. How’s Dean doing?”

“He’s... not great,” he replies, and almost instantly wonders why he’s giving her such a vague answer when she tends to see straight through him anyway. “Actually that’s something of an understatement. He’s in a really bad way. I think... I think we’re gonna have to stay here a while.”

“Is he physically hurt?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, because frankly that would be _easy_. “He’s got a bunch of injuries, broken bones that have healed really badly and may or not improve with surgery, if we even get that far, but his physical issues are the least of our worries. He’s... he’s damaged, Jody.”

And he knows she’ll get that because unlike the nurses and doctors here, she’s at least got some idea what Dean’s lived through and _not_ been fucked up by. She proves that she gets it by her next words.

“Do you want me to come over?”

She says it so sincerely she makes it sound like she’ll just have to hop in the car and drive a couple of blocks, but he knows she’s deadly serious. There’s a part of him that’s crying, _yes please, how soon can you get here?_ because he’s not sure he’s completely up to the task of helping Dean by himself.

Instead he says, “Thanks, but until I know more about how long we’ll be here I don’t want you to go to the trouble.”

“Sam Winchester, trouble is your neighbours coming back as zombies. _This_ would not be trouble, believe me.” Her tone softens. “But until you change your mind, you call me anytime, day or night, okay?”

“I will. Thanks,” he replies. He means it, too, because she’s a shoulder to cry on that doesn’t have to have a heavily sanitised version of the truth.

“Not that I want to give you any other jobs, but keep me updated, okay?”

“Sure thing. Thanks again.”

He ends the call, awash in the loneliness he thought would dissipate when he found his brother. He has Dean back, but Dean isn’t Dean and Sam finds himself wondering if Dean had felt the same way when Sam returned from Hell soulless and crashed back into his brother’s life.

He’s massaging the bridge of his nose when he hears approaching footsteps. He looks up to see Rachel studying him worriedly.

“Sam? Are you okay?”

He forces a smile, but it’s more brittle than the one he finds for Dean, because for his brother he can tap into reserves he doesn’t even know are there.

“Yeah. I just called a friend I’d promised to update. I guess it’s made me realise how far away home is and that it’s just me and Dean or... just me, really.”

Rachel makes a sympathetic face. “Well if there’s anything I can do, just ask.”

“Actually,” he says thinking, “I probably need to try and find a base for myself nearby. Can you recommend any hotels?”

“Well, you might have something of a problem there, Sam,” she says with a frown. “London’s pretty hectic at the moment what with the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, then the Olympics...”

Although he ordinarily likes to keep up with world news he hasn’t while he’s been consumed with trying to rescue his brother. He recalls someone mentioning it in passing while he was in transit.

“I don’t think there’s a hotel room free in _London_ , let alone one around the corner, but don’t worry about it for now. I know Dean’s injuries aren’t life-threatening, but I think we can make an exception and let you stay here.” She smiles teasingly to lighten the mood. “I hear the ward sister’s pretty nice like that.”

He smiles back, relieved. “Thank you. I’d rather be here; I just thought you might have to kick me out.”

She shrugs. “It’s my decision and I think your presence is vital to my patient’s recovery. Speaking of which, Dr. Williams is on his ward rounds. He’ll probably want to talk to you about how Dean’s getting on.”

OoOoO

The physician doesn’t have anything new to report, which Sam thinks is tantamount to good news in their current situation. He expresses his concerns again regarding Dean’s right hand. During examination, Dean indicates he’s in pain by jerking the limb away, mainly when the doctor is palpating his hand or trying to straighten out his fingers. Even Sam is unsuccessful trying to get Dean to hold anything with his right hand, and despite the lack of change in his brother’s expression, he doesn’t think it’s for want of effort.

Dr. Williams talks through surgical options, but it’s difficult to feel optimistic when he cautions that there might be limited improvement in terms of mobility. Sam’s not sure Dean is up to the prospect of surgery anyway. Throughout the conversation Dean stares straight ahead, as if they’re talking about someone else. Again, Sam gets why they think Dean lacks capacity, even if he can’t bring himself to agree.

Before he leaves, Dr. Williams mentions Dean’s assigned social worker and how it’s likely a case conference will be called now Dean has a relative who can potentially make decisions about his care. Sam nods, remembering Rachel’s words of caution. He tries to look perfectly agreeable, even though he’s certain his protective streak must now be glowing like a Vegas neon.

He mentally apologises to his brother, who has had to live in the protective big brother role all his life, because it’s frankly _exhausting_. Obviously this is an extreme situation, but the idea that a stranger currently has the power to make decisions for Dean without his say-so needs remedying immediately.

“Have you got the number for this social worker? If we need to have a meeting then I want to do it as soon as possible.”

“I’ll ask Rachel to call him.”

It turns out Rachel already has, following their earlier conversation. The social worker, whose name is Christopher Ives, has requested an immediate case conference to take place the following morning. Sam allows himself to hope that the man may be eager to relinquish the burden of acting as guardian for the mute man currently occupying the hospital’s isolation ward.

The evening passes uneventfully. Dean is given a light sedative at eight o’clock and falls asleep with Sam promising to stay in the chair beside him. He knows from his own experience when he first arrived that the sedative doesn’t completely knock his brother out but, as the medical staff have explained, it seems to go _some_ way to controlling the nightmares, that clearly have become more frequent and violent since Purgatory dumped its crap on his brother’s already overburdened shoulders.

He’s sleeping when Dean gasps and sits up suddenly. Awake instantly, he sits forward in the chair, ignoring the twinge in his back as it protests at the sudden movement. He reaches out in the almost darkness, but instantly realises his mistake as his brother grabs his hand and twists it sharply. There’s a crunch of breaking bones as two of his fingers give under the pressure.

“Dean!” he says sharply. His voice is low, barely more than a whisper. Even before losing Dean to Purgatory he’d known his brother’s nightmares were best dealt with swiftly, by waking him and reassuring him that whatever it was he was re-living wasn’t his reality any more.

“Dean!” he hisses again and he’s stunned when his brother turns and seems to look straight at him, like there’s finally a person behind the vacant green stare.

“Sammy?”

Despite the pain in his hand, this is possibly the best moment of the last forty-eight or so hours. He grins, an avalanche of relief crashing down on him. He’d never realised how much he’d needed to hear his brother’s voice until that point. “Yeah, man, it’s me.”

“I can’t run anymore, Sammy,” Dean says, and his voice is barely audible, whether it’s through lack of use or the emotions that run rampant across his features Sam isn’t sure, but he realises Dean’s not really with him as he’d first thought.

“Dean...”

“I can’t run. I’m too tired, Sammy. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He’s clearly distressed. Rather than trying to capitalise on Dean’s brief moment of lucidity and talk to his brother, Sam switches to soothing reassurances, his voice calm and even until Dean lies back and closes his eyes again. Only when he’s certain Dean has gone back to sleep and he allows himself to acknowledge what’s just happened does he have his epiphany: in his brother’s mind, he’s still in Purgatory and none of this other stuff is real.

The realisation fills him with dread at the uphill struggle ahead of them; he’s been there, after all, with Dean telling him that he was safe and out of Hell and Lucifer being equally convincing at arguing that he wasn’t. He doesn’t know what demons he’s battling against in Dean’s mind, but he can only pray that he’s up to the challenge before he loses Dean completely.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning he’s disappointed but not surprised that Dean has returned to his previous state: passive almost to the point of comatose but shot through with a thread of nervous tension, a powder keg ready to explode at the slightest hint of a spark.

He has a brief conversation with Dr. Williams, who notices his somewhat pained expression and the awkward way he’s holding his fingers and he finds himself explaining the night’s events. He’s sent for an immediate x-ray, which confirms his suspicions that although Dean might be a pale physical imitation of the man he was, he still has lightning reflexes and reserves of strength that should not be underestimated.

He allows them to strap the fingers then heads straight back to the eighth floor. The case conference has been arranged for eleven o’clock and he wants to be ready ahead of time. As he’s rummaging through his duffel to find his least wrinkled shirt, he wonders if he should be wearing a suit. It seems ridiculous that he’s nervous; this meeting is _surely_ a formality. Then a sliver of self-doubt sets in and he remembers there’s a very real possibility that a group of professionals might deem him unsuitable to make decisions on his brother’s behalf and continue to let a stranger do it.

Normally the outcome wouldn’t warrant a moment’s thought because, as they’ve done a million times before, they’d just up and leave, their names and faces a fading memory for those who had tried to help them. A couple of days spent observing and interacting with his brother however have left him in no doubt that there will be no running this time. Dean needs security and stability in his immediate future, leaving the outcome of this meeting immeasurably more important than it otherwise would be.

Before he left to get ready he’d explained to Dean what was happening, but the information was greeted with the same indifference that his brother now gives to everything.

At ten to eleven he accompanies Rachel to a meeting room on the fifth floor where they pour coffee and seat themselves around the large beech conference table. Before anyone else can arrive she touches him on the arm, pulling him abruptly from his brooding thoughts.

“Sam? You know we’re on your side, right?” she says, and it’s clear she’s concerned.

“Yeah, it’s just... well, me and Dean, we’ve been on our own for so long we’re not used to anyone else having any input in our lives.” He smiles, but it’s a somewhat pained expression.

“I’m not saying it’s an ideal way to live, but it’s all we know.” He stops, frustrated, because there’s no real way to explain what their lives are like without the details and if he wants Rachel to think he will make a suitable guardian for his brother then he needs to keep them firmly to himself.

The door opens suddenly and Sam recognises Officer Baines, who steps into the room accompanied by a smaller, wiry man with a thinning patch of blond hair. The policeman nods a greeting before Rachel suggests they both help themselves to refreshments before the meeting starts. Dr. Williams arrives shortly afterwards with his secretary, who has agreed to take minutes. The formality of the situation does little to steady Sam’s nerves as he realises, somewhat depressingly, that he’d rather be out digging up a grave than this.

The wiry man Sam has correctly surmised is the social worker suggests they get started since everyone is present. He introduces himself as Christopher Ives and requests that they all state their names and their reason for being at the meeting. After the introductions Christopher announces that they should bring Sam up to speed on everything that has gone before. Dr. Williams requests that he start as he is needed back on the ward as soon as he is done here. Christopher nods and gives him a _go ahead_ gesture.

“Well, physically Dean is doing well. He appears to be gaining some weight and none of his wounds or injuries are an immediate cause for concern. The x-rays we took show several breaks and fractures that have healed unsatisfactorily. My recommendation would be re-constructive surgery in those instances, especially since, as Sam has confirmed that Dean is right-handed, they will significantly limit what he can do for himself.

“However, given Dean’s current psychological and emotional state, I don’t feel these surgeries are a priority and would just result in unnecessary stress for him at the moment. He may also not be able to cooperate in any rehabilitation work that would be needed afterwards.”

There are nods of agreement around the table and with no more specific medical recommendations, Dr. Williams excuses himself from the meeting and heads back to the ward. The social worker then turns his attention to the policeman.

“Officer Baines, would you like to go next?”

The policeman nods. “Well, I met with Sam yesterday to try and get some information about Dean’s movements prior to his disappearance, bearing in mind he went missing in the States.” Baines shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Sam isn’t sure whether it’s down to the lack of information he was able to give or simply the policeman’s dissatisfaction with being part of a case that is unlikely to be resolved.

“We’ve had no luck finding any witnesses who saw how Dean got _into_ the alleyway on the night he was found and without a victim’s statement, there’s very little we can do at present.”

He looks at Sam, who ensures his expression remains neutral in the face of the other man’s scrutiny. He doesn’t want the officer to think he doesn’t _care_ how Dean has ended up so badly damaged because that will look suspicious, but neither does he want to look like he’ll throw a shit-fit about the lack of progress and demand they throw more resources at the investigation.

There’s also something, if he’s reading between the lines, that says the policeman doesn’t expect to get anything out of Dean at any point in the future, like the man sitting in silence upstairs is all there’ll ever be. That’s probably the thing that angers Sam the most. He turns to look at Rachel, who’s been asked to speak next, determined not to let his irritation show.

“Well, as Dr. Williams reported, we’ve no real issues regarding Dean’s physical wellbeing; our main concern continues to be his mental health. That’s not to say there haven’t been improvements recently. When he was first admitted it was almost impossible to get near him; now he tolerates me and a couple of other members of staff treating him, but he still can’t cope with unfamiliar people or busier environments. We had to sedate him to take him down to the x-ray department, for instance.”

She pauses and offers Sam a reassuring smile. “Since Sam’s arrived though, Dean _has_ seemed calmer; he’s allowed Sam to give him a shave and I’m told he stayed in bed the whole night last night, whereas previously he’s got up part way through the night to find a hiding place within his room. He still reacts badly to loud noises and we’re gradually trying to increase the amount of light in his room.”

“Have there been any other violent outbursts?” the social worker asks.

Rachel shakes her head, her long chestnut ponytail catching the light from the window behind her. “No. Like I said, he’s been much calmer. We’re only sedating him at night now to try and help with the nightmares.”

“And has he spoken yet?”

“No.”

The social worker turns his attention on Sam with a smile after he’s finished jotting down some notes of his own. “Apologies, Sam. We’d normally have started with you, but we needed Dr. Williams’ feedback before he had to get back to his duties.

“I’m sure I speak for the rest of the people here when I say we’re really pleased that we’ve been able to locate you. Maybe, if you don’t mind, you could start by telling us a little bit about Dean?”

Having been given the floor Sam takes a moment to collect his thoughts. What does he say?

_Well, my brother raised me, we hunt demons and ghosts and werewolves etc. etc. because that’s what our father taught us to do. Dean sacrificed himself to bring me back to life when I was killed and then paid for that by spending four months in Hell, although for him it was more like forty years because time works differently down there. Then he was resurrected by an angel because he was supposed to be the Archangel Michael’s vessel but he said no, and was pretty much instrumental in averting the apocalypse._

_Since then he’s been distant and is basically a functioning alcoholic but at least we stopped the Leviathan taking over the world and killing everybody because, seriously? It was a close-run thing! Unfortunately it meant Dean got sucked into Purgatory, presumably with all the monsters we’ve ever sent there and that’s where he’s been until I found a ritual and busted him out._

_So basically what you’re seeing now is the result of all that crap because Dean still believes he’s stuck there and presumably in grave danger. Any questions?_

All eyes are on him so he smiles and shrugs. “There’s not a lot to tell; Dean’s an ordinary guy: he’s smart, funny, loyal. Our mom died when I was six months old and Dean was four and then our dad died a few years back. My dad had a job that kept him really busy when we were growing up so Dean’s really the one who raised me.”

He notes the sympathetic faces around the table and hopes this is convincing them that he and Dean are genuinely close – it’s not like it’s not the truth anyway. “We haven’t had the easiest of lives, but it’s been okay, because we’ve always had each other. When Dean went missing,” and he stops, caught unexpectedly by the surge of emotion as he recalls standing in the lab at Sucrocorp and realising, as Crowley had kindly pointed out, that he was well and truly alone. He swallows it down, forces a smile.

“Well, it was really tough,” he finishes, which is the most ridiculous understatement but it’s all he can come up with right now.

“Thank you for that, Sam,” the social worker says, nodding as he scribbles in his notebook. He stops and taps his pen against his teeth a couple of times as he contemplates his next question. “And although we don’t know exactly what has happened to Dean while he was missing, he’s clearly experienced some kind of traumatic event. Has Dean ever reacted similarly to anything that might have happened in the past?”

It’s hard to think when your life seems to have been one big, long fucking traumatic event, but Sam makes the effort. “Not that I remember, personally, because I was just a baby at the time, but I think Dean stopped speaking for several months after our mom died.”

“Was your mother’s death the result of an accident?”

“She died in a house fire.”

More sympathetic faces. He sometimes forgets that for people looking from the outside in, their lives look ridiculously tragic. Sometimes he thinks those people might have a point.

When it’s clear that he’s done, the social worker takes the floor once more.

“Well, since Dr. Williams has said he doesn’t think those re-constructive surgeries are appropriate at the moment, I think our focus should be on looking at a suitable placement for Dean once he’s discharged from hospital.”

Sam frowns. “Placement? As in...?”

Christopher smiles, a paragon of patience. “Well, normally we’d be considering whether it’s appropriate for a patient to go home, but obviously that’s not an option at the moment with your home being so far away. Personally I think Dean’s needs would be best met for the foreseeable future at an inpatient facility not far from here.”

“Wait,” Sam says quickly. “You’re talking about a psychiatric facility?”

“Yes. It’s clear he’s an extremely traumatised man--”

“I appreciate that, but a psychiatric facility isn’t the answer.” _I should know_ , he feels like saying, thinking of Glenwood Springs, _we’ve fucking been in one and we both came out crazier than when we went in._ “You heard what Rachel said; he reacts badly to loud noises and crowds and that’s exactly what he’ll get if you put him in one of those places.”

Christopher smiles benevolently, making Sam want to punch the expression clean off his face. “But they’ll be equipped to deal with issues like Dean’s. Wouldn’t you rather he was placed somewhere where they know how to cope with him, especially if he can be violent?”

The social worker is looking pointedly at his strapped fingers and he realises someone must have told. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, reminding himself that losing his shit when he hasn’t been given the power to decide his brother’s fate isn’t going to help Dean. When he speaks, his voice is controlled – it’s the voice he’d thought, many years ago, he would be using after law school to persuade juries and coax information from witnesses.

“Look, I can see why you think he’d be better off placed in a psychiatric facility, especially given that Dean has no home to return to in this country, but I can assure you that I’ve no intention of subjecting him to the ordeal of flying home before he’s ready. If I have to, I’ll rent somewhere here in the UK in the middle of nowhere if that’s what he needs to recover at his own pace.”

The silence that follows is heavy with the challenge Sam has issued. _Let me take care of my brother._ Sam’s waiting for the social worker to issue his decision and he wonders if he’ll be able to resist punching him, even though he knows it’ll do neither him nor Dean any good. When the silence is broken however, it’s Rachel who’s speaking.

“I wonder if I could make a suggestion?”

She smiles at Sam before turning her gaze upon the social worker.

“Sam has only just arrived and Dean is already showing some sign of improvement. Although he might not be having those surgeries, there are other assessments we’d like to carry out when he’s more cooperative. He’s also still receiving treatment for malnourishment, so it could be another two to three weeks before he’s ready to be discharged.

“Would it be possible to hold off on this decision until closer to the time that we’re actually going to discharge him? Surely then we’ll have a better idea of what his needs will actually be?”

Sam could kiss her. The social worker, to his credit, looks thoughtful before he nods his agreement.

“I think that might be a good idea. Sam, is that acceptable to you?”

He gets it – the social worker won’t force Dean into a psychiatric facility, not yet anyway, but he won’t hand over guardianship either. Next to him Rachel is studying him closely, presumably waiting to see whether he’s going to be a stubborn asshole even though she’s managed to salvage something from the impasse. He knows he should be grateful; it’s not quite a pardon, but it’s at least a stay of execution.

“I won’t pretend to be happy about it, but it’s fine for now.”

The social worker nods, seemingly pleased with this. “Great. So it’s agreed that we’ll reconvene if there are any decisions that need to be made regarding Dean’s care, but for now, things should stay as they are.”

The meeting concludes and Sam excuses himself. He’s angry, even though a part of him understands where they’re coming from; they didn’t know Dean before. But he feels like he’s failed his brother. If the situation were reversed, Dean would surely have secured what he wanted. Intellectually, of course, he knows that’s probably not true, given that this isn’t an issue that could have been resolved with fists.

Worse still, though, he feels angry with _Dean_ and he hates himself for that. As the afternoon moves into evening he’s almost relieved when Dean is given the sedative to help him sleep because the silence and blankness when he’s just sitting there is almost too much to bear. The urge to shake his brother and tell him to snap out of it has ridden dangerously close to the surface in the last few hours.

With Dean asleep he goes to take a shower. Afterwards, he’s sitting amidst the contents of his duffel looking for a fresh t-shirt, wishing he’d packed more, when Rachel sticks her head tentatively around the door.

“Knock knock,” she says.

He looks up from his task and beckons her in before resuming his hunt for a clean t-shirt. He finds one that’s wrinkled to hell but clean at least, and when he looks up again she’s smiling as she sits down across from him.

“What?”

“Same tattoos,” she says, jerking her head towards his bare chest.

He pulls the t-shirt on and huffs a sound that could have been a laugh if this were a life in which he had more things to laugh about. He wonders whether she’s noticed his scars as well as the tattoo. There’s a charged silence for a moment before he meets her gaze.

“I’m sorry I rushed off before, I just needed to get out for a minute. I don’t want you to think that I don’t really appreciate what you did for us in that meeting, Rachel.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies warmly. “I knew you guys were close, you know, even _before_ I knew about the matching ink.”

He smiles now because she has this way about her that says she gets people, knows when to tease and when hold off. He also thinks it goes a long way to explaining why she’s one of the few people his brother has let near him.

“But what you’ve got to understand, Sam, is that before we were able to find you, Social Services were given a legal obligation to look after Dean and trust me, they get a _lot_ of crap when they fail the people they’re supposed to be there for, especially someone as vulnerable as your brother.”

He hates that Dean can be accurately described with an adjective such as ‘vulnerable’ but what’s the point in pretending otherwise? Her next words surprise him.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I knew you guys were close, and please don’t be offended, Sam, but I know there’s something about Dean’s situation that you’re not telling me.”

He’s about to try and protest but she holds her hands up to stall him.

“I’m not trying to pry and I haven’t said anything to anyone because, well, call me crazy, but whatever it is, I feel like you’re withholding it to protect Dean.”

Her gaze is sharp, suddenly astute and after a moment she nods, like whatever she’s seen in his face, it’s confirmed what she’s thinking. And part of him almost tells her everything, right there and then because he feels like he can trust her and God, just to be able to _talk_ to someone here about why Dean’s really so fucked up would be awesome, but he doesn’t go there.

The smile he offers her is part-confirmation, part-consolation.

“Please believe me, Rachel, when I tell you how important Dean is to me and why I honestly don’t think a psychiatric facility is what he needs, and I know this whole situation is ten tonnes of crazy, but I can’t tell you everything -- not yet anyway.”

She nods, the gesture somehow conveying that she both trusts him and believes him. From that alone, he feels compelled to offer more.

“Tell you what,” he says. “When there’s less riding on it, and with Dean’s permission, I’ll tell you everything -- then it’s up to you to decide whether you believe us or not. But not before I’m sure there wouldn’t be any repercussions for us.”

She smiles and nods resolutely. “That sounds fair.”

OoOoO

He realises later that the talk with Rachel – just knowing that there’s definitely someone on their side – has made him feel a little more positive. The fold-out bed they’ve also found for him ensures a better night’s sleep, rubbing away the edges of his anger so that in the morning, when he’s greeted with his brother’s blank gaze, he feels determined rather than irritated. They’ve got two or three weeks to convince Dean’s social worker that he doesn’t need to be committed to the inpatient facility, and they’ve got to work fast.

“Come on, man,” he says after they’ve both eaten breakfast, albeit still in separate rooms. “We’re gonna start having a look around this place, really try and convince that brain of yours that you’re back and not still in... well, in _there_.”

When he’d first formulated this plan, he’d contemplated taking Dean some of the clothes he’d packed, but then figured, realistically, on this first attempt, they probably aren’t going to get very far.

And he’s right.

With hesitant steps, Dean walks shoulder to shoulder with him around the room. Sam guides him to the window because he figures Dean needs to see that it’s just London out there, but when he starts to pull back the blinds, Dean recoils from the daylight, leading Sam to wonder if his brother’s eyes are permanently damaged.

When he’d been researching how to break his brother out, he’d found several references to Purgatory’s ‘endless night’. Judging by Dean’s reaction to anything other than the half-light in which he currently exists, it’s more than just a fanciful turn of phrase.

Leaving Dean sitting on his bed for a moment he goes out into the corridor and finds Katie, who is currently on duty. He explains what he’s trying to do and she tells him to go ahead, so he returns to the corridor outside his brother’s room and switches off the harsh fluorescents overhead. It’s still fairly bright, so he closes the blinds too.

When Sam comes back, he finds Dean just as he left him.

“Dean.”

His brother looks around so he fixes him with a broad smile, hoping his confidence and enthusiasm will somehow be infectious.

“Come here.”

For a moment he thinks Dean isn’t going to respond, and he’s about to ask again, when Dean pushes himself off the bed and walks over to where he’s standing. He stops a few yards short and looks out into the corridor behind Sam and the open doorway. Sam can sense his brother’s hesitation.

“Dean, I want you to come with me. I swear I won’t let anything happen to you – or me,” he adds, knowing how his brother’s mind will work if there’s even the slightest hint of his protective big brother still in there.

“I need you to trust me, Dean. We’re gonna work on getting you better.” He stops short at the explanation of what will happen if they don’t achieve ‘better’ because pressure isn’t what his brother needs right now.

Dean indicates his agreement by letting his eyes slide back to the doorway. Sam, relieved they haven’t fallen at the first hurdle, moves to his brother’s right side. He figures Dean might feel more secure with Sam flanking his injured arm, and stands so that their shoulders are lightly touching.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Dean moves with him but it’s slow and there’s a moment’s hesitation when they reach the threshold. This room has been his brother’s sanctuary for the last week; Sam knows he’s asking a lot expecting Dean to leave it. He needs him to see that this is all real, though, and not some hallucination. The more he gets Dean to see of the world, the more Sam thinks there’s a chance that that might happen.

The corridor remains empty and dimly-lit, but there are sounds of life elsewhere, omnipresent in a hospital this size. When he glances at his brother, Dean’s eyes are darting everywhere and his body is rigid with tension, but he’s still moving forward. Sam is stubbornly determined to take this as a win.

Since this is the isolation ward, the corridor they’re on has no other exits aside from the set of double doors at the far end. Beyond that, it opens out to an area that leads through to the nurses’ station and the other wards. Katie is at the desk currently, and he thinks if he can get Dean that far then they’ve accomplished great things.

“You’re doing great, man,” he says with a smile. “We’ll just go a bit further and then call it a day. How does that sound?”

Dean doesn’t respond, but the forward momentum is still there. It stops, however, the minute Sam opens one of the double doors and the noises from outside the isolation ward suddenly grow in volume. They’ve dimmed the lights out here too and the desk is in view, Katie waiting there with a smile of welcome.

He studies Dean for a moment and realises his brother is shaking.

“Dean? We don’t have to go out there if you don’t want. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing.”

Maybe this is too much after all and he goes to let the door swing shut. He’s surprised, then, when Dean reaches out and catches it, preventing it from closing. He’s still shaking, but Sam’s suddenly aware of the furious look in his eyes, as if he’s angry that such a simple exercise might defeat him. They stand there until Sam sees the muscles of his brother’s left arm tense as Dean tries to push the door open. He goes to help.

He realises he’s holding his breath when Dean steps past him to stand exposed in the area that leads towards the nurses’ station. There’s a noise from a room to their left and Dean flinches, but his feet are anchored to the floor, as if he’s determined that he’s not going to turn tail and run. Sam studies him and is reminded of a documentary he saw once about wild mustangs, nostrils flaring as they sense a threat, their bodies frozen, caught in that moment between fight and flight.

Then Katie is up and out of her seat. She walks towards them slowly, her posture open and non-threatening and Sam wonders if she’s seen the same documentary.

“Hey, Dean,” she says warmly. “It’s good to see you up and about.”

Dean meets her gaze, the muscles in his jaw twitching. After several seconds, he nods his head sharply and, for Sam, the action is so unexpected and yet so _welcome_ that Dean may as well have just finished a word-perfect delivery of Hamlet’s soliloquy. It’s seriously _that_ fucking awesome because, as far as he’s aware, this is the first time Dean’s actually responded to anyone here. He’s also conscious that this is testing Dean to his very limits and he doesn’t want to risk pushing for too much, too soon.

“Hey, Dean. You wanna head back?”

Dean’s eyes meet his and it’s clear it’s a yes. Sam gives Katie a quick, grateful smile and nudges Dean into action, retracing their hesitant steps back down the corridor to the isolation ward. He sees that Dean is limping slightly, as if this is the furthest he’s walked in a while, and then realises that it probably is. They reach Dean’s room and Sam pulls the door shut behind them. He studies his brother and knows instantly that Dean is exhausted and the realisation tempers his enthusiasm.

They might reach ‘better’ but it’s going to take baby steps to get there.


	4. Chapter 4

The activity of getting Dean out of his room has another side effect; he’s clearly so drained by the excursion he sleeps the night through with only the slightest hint of a nightmare that doesn’t have the potency to rouse him from sleep.

Certain this proves they’re on the right lines, Sam decides the new day can be used to tackle another of Dean’s post-Purgatory idiosyncrasies. He wastes no time after breakfast, using his laptop and the hospital’s wi-fi connection to do a little research, then heads out mid-morning after assuring his brother he’ll be back very soon.

Rachel’s working on the computer behind the desk when Sam returns, carrying with him two large brown paper bags.

“Something smells good,” she comments with a grin. Sam had earlier asked that Dean be missed off the lunch rounds for this. He’d promised faithfully that he wasn’t trying to use food to make Dean do something he wasn’t ready for.

“They should,” he replies, also grinning. “Between the prices and the reviews they get, they’d better taste good too.”

Rachel shakes her head and laughs. “Let me get this straight; you’ve just spent forty quid in a taxi to bring your brother some cheeseburgers? You know there’s a McDonald’s round the corner, right?”

“Fifty, actually, and yes, I do. However, Dean’s something of a cheeseburger connoisseur,” he says, rolling his eyes at how ridiculous that sounds, but he’s laughing too.

“Well, I hope he enjoys them.”

Sam does too. He enters Dean’s room and approaches the bed only once he’s sure Dean has seen that it’s him. His brother’s gaze drops to the bags in his hands and he sniffs at the air like a dog. Capitalising on Dean’s apparent interest, Sam takes the bags over to him and places them on the tray that goes over the bed.

“Brought you something,” he says, allowing the aromas to flood out as he opens the bags and begins to unwrap the contents. Dean watches in silence as burgers are followed by fries, then a seemingly endless selection of small pots containing sauces and salsas to complete the meal.

“Figured you deserved a break from hospital food,” he continues as he starts to unwrap his own burger and damn, he might choose salads over Dean’s constant-red-meat diet but these look _good_ \-- like an airbrushed to perfection photograph taken for an advertising campaign -- and he’s more than ready to devour his share.

The only problem for Dean is going to be that Sam’s going to stay right here while he does it.

Sam pretends not to notice his brother’s furious expression as he settles back in his seat, making it blatantly clear he’s not going anywhere and he hopes and prays his plan’s not going to backfire now. The first mouthful confirms his suspicions that he’s not lost his touch when it comes to accurate research, and Dean’s now practically salivating, which slightly ruins the death glare and would be funny under any other circumstances.

“Oh wow... You gotta try the burger, man.”

He turns his body so he’s not focussing on Dean and tries to continue nonchalantly eating his own lunch, even though he doesn’t _feel_ very nonchalant because Dean’s not moving and his own stress levels are rising.

He’s about to abandon ship, wishing he’d formulated some kind of ‘Plan B’ with Rachel so he’d have an excuse to leave, when out of his peripheral vision he sees Dean reach for the burger. The movement is awkward because Dean’s having to use his left hand. Sam wonders if he should offer to cut it in half, but stops because any challenge that his brother doesn’t shy away from, no matter how small, is a step in the right direction towards the Dean he knows and loves.

And this is another one he’ll chalk up as a win; Dean is eating with him still in the room, and although his brother doesn’t look completely relaxed, he’s lowered his guard enough let go of another of his hang ups.

Midway through the meal Sam is hit by a memory: of Dean maybe thirteen, fourteen years old bitching at Sam’s nine-year-old self to finish everything on his plate when Dad was away God knows where, hunting God knows what. He’d of course argued then that Dean was being a dictator, or worse -- being _Dad_ , and _why did he always have to be such a jerk?_

His egocentric self had never noticed the worry in his brother’s eyes as the days passed, supplies and money dwindled and Dean had started to insist that he eat whatever was in front of him, even when his own meal was pathetically small. Sam’s older, wiser self can now appreciate his brother’s motives, even if it pricks his sense of shame to do so.

He hates that their father could walk out, leaving his responsibilities towards his sons at the door, knowing Dean would pick up that burden and carry it willingly until he returned. He hates, too, that Dean would never quite relinquish the yoke of responsibility even when their father was back. He can’t change the past, but he can be there for Dean now.

When it’s back to hospital food later on, Sam thinks his brother is about to revert to his former behaviour. He hates the tension that radiates from Dean’s every movement, overlaid with suspicion that Sam might not be what he seems. Eventually though, Dean starts to eat, and both brothers incrementally relax.

After Dean is asleep, Sam moves outside and calls Sheriff Mills, figuring an update is due. She answers on the third ring. They exchange pleasantries with only a mild rebuke from the sheriff for not calling sooner before she asks after Dean.

“He’s doing better,” Sam says, and thinks for the first time he might honestly mean it. He fills her in on how he’s gotten Dean to leave his room and how they’ve now shared two meals in the same room.

“I’m just trying to find things to motivate him or convince him that he’s not still in Purgatory. It’s going to take time, I know, but that’s something that’s kinda in short supply at the moment.” He explains about the case conference as Jody listens quietly.

“So you’ve got about two weeks?”

“I think so.”

There’s a moment of thoughtful silence.

“I think you’re right for not running,” she says, and Sam can’t respond for the sudden and unexpected relief he feels that someone he trusts and respects thinks he’s doing the right thing by Dean. “Keep that as a last resort for now. It sounds like you’ve got some allies at the hospital.”

“Yeah, the staff have been great. It’s just hard not being able to tell them what we’re up against with Dean.” He thinks about Rachel and the promise he made and wonders if that explanation will ever take place.

“Okay. So we need to think of things that will help Dean...” Jody says, and the slight prolongation of the last couple of words tells Sam that she’s thinking as she talks. “What about his car? He calls that his baby, doesn’t he?”

And Sam kicks himself right there and then. How better to draw his brother from his almost comatose state than the possibility of getting behind the wheel of the one thing that means the world to him besides family?

“You’re right,” he replies and he curses their luck yet again that Dean reappeared on a different continent.

“Have you got any photos of it on your laptop that you could show him?”

“No,” he says, and somehow showing Dean a similar model on Google Images doesn’t seem quite as brilliant a plan.

The sheriff’s response is instant: “Give me the address, I’ll go take some.”

“Jody, I can’t possibly ask you to do that -- the car’s about four hours’ drive from where you are.”

“The _address_ , Sam.”

OoOoO

He checks his emails the following morning while Dean is being helped to shower. There’s one from Jody complete with attachments consisting of ten photographs of his brother’s baby from every angle. He grins and shakes his head before firing off a grateful response.

Obviously the ideal situation would be to have the car here, to have something _tangible_ that Dean can use to anchor himself in reality, but for now Sam has the pictures and, brightening suddenly with the knowledge as he rummages in his duffel, the keys to the kingdom, so to speak.

Dean returns with Katie, freshly showered and dressed in clean t-shirt and shorts. He’s cradling his right arm with his left, something Sam has noticed that he does a lot, and his expression is shuttered in a way that has also become habitual. Sam smiles even though he knows Dean won’t respond, then turns his attention to Katie before his mind starts cataloguing Dean’s visible injuries and kills the optimism he has developed over the last few days.

“You know he’s gonna expect special treatment all the time now?” he says with a grin.

Katie turns her warm smile on Dean and gives him a wink as she settles him into the chair beside his bed. “I think you’re making your brother jealous, hon.”

Sam can think of a million ‘Dean-like’ responses to that comment, but his brother uses none of them in favour of ongoing silence and blankness. Moments like this -- that serve to highlight how badly Purgatory has changed and broken his brother -- kill Sam and threaten to push him into believing that he’ll never get the old Dean back. For Dean’s sake, he swallows it down, relocates his smile and holds his hands up, playing along.

“Okay, you got me.”

“So have you boys got anything planned for today?” Katie asks as she strips off the old bed sheets. It’s obvious she’s sensed his thoughts sliding and he’s grateful for her perceptiveness.

“I thought we might try another walk,” Sam replies, studying his brother. “And I’ve got something I want to show Dean on the computer. Something a friend sent me this morning.”

He’s heartened that Dean looks up at that point – he doesn’t look interested exactly, but the fact that he’s obviously been following a conversation that’s relevant to him is a change from several days ago.

“Well I’ll leave you to it,” Katie says, the bundled sheets in her arms. “I think Dr. Williams will be around later to see you, Dean.”

When the nurse has left, Sam grabs his chair and pulls it around to his brother’s side of the bed. He sets up the laptop so they can both see the screen and types in his password while Dean watches impassively.

“Sheriff Mills thought of someone else you might be interested in seeing -- well, _something_ else at any rate.” He clicks around until the screen is filled with the best of the photos Jody took – an image that showcases the Impala’s sleek lines and immaculate chrome.

Before he can turn to look at Dean, he hears his brother’s sharp intake of breath and it hits him then; it’s a given that Dean will be pleased to see his baby, but the last time his brother saw the car, it was at Sucrocorp right before their final showdown with Dick Roman. Dean can’t even have known that the car made it out of that battle, let alone that it’s been safely stored, awaiting his return.

“If I could find a way to get the car here for real I swear I would, man but for now... these will have to do.” He takes his brother’s left hand, relieved that Dean doesn’t flinch or pull away, and presses the keys into it, curling Dean’s fingers around the familiar leather fob. Dean’s hand stays closed as he pulls away.

“Jody took some more. You wanna see them?”

Dean meets his gaze and then, after only a moment’s hesitation, he gives a tight nod. Sam grins. He knew it would be a yes, but it’s still a real victory to see that gesture of affirmation and he clicks around again until a different shot of the car appears.

“I took her and put her in a lockup,” Sam says gently, studying his brother’s profile as Dean’s eyes rove hungrily over the picture. “I figured you’d wanna get behind the wheel when you got back.”

Dean looks at him suddenly, like he’s searching for the truth in his words so he presses on. “And you _are_ back, Dean. You’re back and you’re safe and when we get back home we can get her out of storage.”

He avoids the practicalities, like how Dean will drive with his right hand so damaged, because his brother is _listening_ to him and for the first time something tells him that maybe, _finally_ , Dean is starting to believe him.

“Keep the keys, man,” he says finally, when the slideshow of photographs has come to an end. “Keep them because you’re gonna need them.”

OoOoO

Despite the glimmers of hope revealed over the last couple of days there are no miraculous or sudden breakthroughs: Dean doesn’t wake up one morning and start speaking. He still reacts badly to unexpected events, which occur sometimes despite efforts made by Sam and the hospital staff to keep them to a minimum. He grips the keys to the Impala like a talisman.

Physical improvements are clearly visible to see as far as Sam’s concerned: Dean’s face is starting to lose the extreme gauntness and, after some coaxing, he’s able to sort out Dean’s hair properly. It takes a while – at first the noise of the clippers Sam manages to borrow makes Dean flinch away from him - but they get there in the end.

Rachel laughs and makes a joke about the unlikely scenario of a brother being responsible for his sibling’s haircut and he laughs with her to avoid having to explain the reality: that he _does_ normally cut Dean’s hair because it’s easier than trying to find a reliable barber when they move around as much as they do.

He avoids explaining because it’s yet another facet of their lives that highlights how they don’t live like regular people and he hates exposing their lives to outsider scrutiny, even though, from what he’s seen so far, Rachel is unlikely to judge.

Times like this, he’s also confronted with the prospect of where their lives go from here, both in the short term once Dean is well enough to leave the hospital and longer: when he can eventually get his brother back to America. He’s not sure if hunting will feature in their futures, if it should or even if he _wants_ it to.

In the past whenever it came up, Dean’s response was always a given, delivered in the same bored-sounding tone that indicated Sam was an idiot to even be asking: hunting is all the life he’s known and he’s good with that despite the hardships that inevitably ride shotgun with such an existence.

Now... well, Sam knows it might be a long time before Dean is even ready to make that decision. He can’t bring himself to consider that Dean may _never_ be ready to make that decision, even though retiring from hunting might be a fait accompli; might have been from the moment his brother reappeared in the alleyway in St. Pancras a lifetime ago.

He hates that he doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not.

They attempt more walks around the eighth floor with varying success. Dean is still wary and rigid with tension as he moves, but they get further each time and eventually they’re able to sit together in the break room for short periods. When they walk in the evenings, Dean even goes so far as to join Sam at the window where, in silence, they watch the city going about its business.

The light still affects Dean badly. Sam has remedied this with a pair of dark glasses that are not going to win any awards for style but block the light successfully and allow Dean to walk the corridors without turning off lights and closing blinds. Sam’s tried to talk Dean into making those same walks on his own but so far, his brother hasn’t shown any interest in doing so.

Sam talks to his brother about London, even though he hasn’t seen much of it himself. He talks to Dean about the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations. He tells him about the Euro 2012 football tournament, which seems to be gripping the nation with equal amounts of hope and cynicism about the England team’s performance. And he tells him how frenetically London is preparing to host the Olympic Games. He can only assume Dean is listening, even though he never responds.

The staff also acknowledges the small, positive steps and Rachel starts to help Sam look for a place he and Dean can call home until his brother is ready to fly back to the States. She’s fully supportive of Sam’s plans to get Dean out of the city to somewhere rural and guides him in narrowing down locations. They don’t talk about _if_ , only when.

And that suits Sam _just fine_.

Dean has been in the hospital for just under a month when Dr. Williams gives him the all-clear for discharge. Although he’s still underweight, he’s put enough on to satisfy the medic’s concerns. His other medical issues remain: Dr. Williams is unchanged in his view that his patient would benefit from several surgeries to mend the many broken bones, particularly those affecting the mobility of his right hand but Dean’s readiness, or lack of it, is not a good enough reason to keep him hospitalised.

Sam is there when the doctor delivers his judgement and he’s caught between equal feelings of anticipation and terror at the thought of finally being able to take Dean away from the hospital. It also throws up the prospect of the inevitable case conference. Sam has to convince himself that although Dean still has a long road ahead of him in terms of his recovery, they’ve done enough to show that he is on that road and can therefore be allowed to travel it in his own time.

With time short, Sam makes a decision regarding where they will live. The agents renting out the property are bemused that he doesn’t want to look around first, but when he explains that he has a seriously injured brother with whom he has to stay in London, they get onto it without hesitation.

For once in their lives, money isn’t an issue. After Dean had disappeared Sam discovered two things: one, that Bobby had left them a not insignificant amount of savings (only discovered as he raided the deceased hunter’s stuff looking for information to help Dean) and two, their new ally Charlie, although she couldn’t help with the specifics of getting Dean out of Purgatory, _could_ hack the accounts of large, unscrupulous corporations to help fund his quest.

So their healthy bank account comfortably affords them the rent on a small three-bedroom farmhouse in Bramley, Surrey, which sits on forty acres and, most importantly, is over a mile from the nearest neighbour.

Maybe it’s the unusual nature of a young man wanting to rent a property, unseen, in the middle of nowhere, but the real estate agent is more candid than he would usually be. He tells Sam that the house has been empty for a while and is not in the best state of repair, hence the relatively low rent in a village where houses can easily top the million-pound mark on the rare occasion that someone wants to sell.

Sam assures them this is not a problem, and with references provided by Sheriff Mills and Rachel confirming the brothers’ good characters and three months’ rent paid upfront, regardless of whether they stay the entire time or not, the property is theirs. He signs the contracts and heads back to the hospital.

Sam finds the isolation ward noisier than usual; it’s nothing major but it’s enough to make his stomach dip and he breaks into a jog, almost barrelling into Rachel as she emerges from one of the side rooms.

“Sam!” She sounds breathless, and he notes worriedly, more than a little relieved to see him.

“What’s happened? Where’s Dean?”

She sweeps a hand across her hair in frustration but when she speaks she sounds apologetic. “He’s okay... but we’ve had to sedate him.”

Sam frowns. “What? _Why?_ He was okay when I left.” He realises it could sound like an accusation, but fortunately she doesn’t take it that way.

“I know.”

Before he can step forward, she takes his arm and leads him into the room she’s just emerged from. She closes the door before he can protest, blocking out the sound of voices from further down the ward.

“It seems Dean decided while you were gone to have a go at leaving his room by himself.” The pause is deliberate as they both acknowledge the enormity of this event. The look of pride in the nurse’s eyes is unmistakable. Once again Sam is warmed by the fact that this stranger cares so much about them.

“He came out to the nurses’ station but we were on our rounds, so he must have headed down to the break room.” She sighs.

“Unfortunately his social worker was in there. He’d arrived a little early and was waiting for you to get back. He only said hello but Dean reacted really badly.”

Sam’s heart sinks. “How badly?”

“A chair got thrown even though Christopher swears he never tried to approach him. Dean made it back to his room, but he was so agitated we felt it was safer to give him something to help calm him down. I’m sorry, Sam.”

He realises murder is reflected in his eyes when Rachel takes his arm and gives it a firm squeeze, bringing his focus back onto her.

“He respected your wishes, Sam. He didn’t try to go and see Dean without your consent; it was just bad timing that Dean decided to go walkabouts while he was here.”

He breathes deeply as his fury recedes. She’s right; it’s not the social worker’s fault, but Dean shouldn’t be penalised for the slip when he’s doing so much better – most of the time at least.

“I need to speak to Mr. Ives,” he replies.

Rachel studies him for a moment -- assessing the risk to the social worker’s physical wellbeing no doubt -- then nods. “Okay. He’s out there speaking to Dr. Williams. It’s his _job_ , Sam,” she adds, before the rage can rekindle.

“Okay.”

He steps out of the room with her following behind him. As they round the corner Christopher Ives is standing at the nurses’ station talking to Dean’s doctor. Both turn at the sound of his approach. The social worker smiles in greeting, but there’s a wariness in his expression that says he isn’t completely sure he’s not about to get punched.

“Afternoon, Sam.”

“Mr. Ives,” Sam replies with a tight smile of his own. “I hope you’re not injured in any way.”

“Oh, no,” the social worker replies hastily. “I’m just sorry my visit unsettled your brother so much.”

The medical personnel excuse themselves; Rachel says she’ll go check on Dean. Sam thanks her and turns his attention back to the social worker, wishing he could get a read on the man’s expression.

“Mr. Ives, Dean is doing better, he _is_. It’s only been a few weeks and he’s already lost some of his fears, like refusing to eat in front of me. Hell, the fact that he felt confident enough to leave his room when I wasn’t here is real progress too--”

The social worker raises his hands in a gesture of placation that stops him mid-flow. “Sam, I can assure you that any decisions we make won’t be based on one solitary incident. That’s why it’s important that everyone involved in your brother’s care can be present at the case conference, so we can get a complete picture of how his recovery is progressing.”

“And when will that be?”

“Tomorrow morning, if you’re agreeable. I’ve checked and everyone who needs to be present can be.”

“That’s fine,” he replies, even though fine’s probably the one thing it isn’t. It’ll take a miracle for the man’s opinion not to be coloured by having a chair launched at his head, all for the heinous crime of saying hello.

The social worker assures him before he leaves the ward that the meeting is nothing to worry about. Moments later Rachel returns and, seeing him alone, hurries over.

“Sam? Dean’s sleeping. Is everything okay?”

He shrugs and runs both hands through his hair. “Yeah. No. Maybe. I dunno.”

“Wow... that really narrows it down.”

He smiles despite himself because she has that effect on him. For a second he’s reminded of Jess, who always had the tenacity to pull him out of self-pity rather than allow him to sink further into its depths.

“He says he won’t hold it against Dean, but seriously? How can he not? Dean basically just attacked him, for Christ’s sake.”

It’s Rachel’s turn to shrug. “He’s a social worker. I’m sure he’s dealt with worse.”

There’s a moment’s silence, which Rachel is first to break.

“So did you manage to sort the house?”

Sam nods as they both start to walk towards Dean’s room. “Everything’s signed. It’s partially furnished which is good. Just gotta get Dean there... if of course he’s allowed to leave with me.”

“One challenge at a time,” Rachel replies, mildly chastising him for his pessimism. “So why’d you settle on Bramley?”

She’d been the one to suggest the borough of Waverley in Surrey, citing it as a desirable location and high in the features Sam had been looking for. This had given him a number of towns and villages to consider and eventually he’d selected the village of Bramley.

“Honestly?” The question can’t fail to make him smile. “It’s got a classic car showroom. I figured it sounds like Dean’s kind of place.”

She laughs as she pats him on the arm but when she speaks, her voice is full of warmth and affection. “Dean’s lucky to have you, Sam.”

They part company at the door, leaving Sam to enter his brother’s darkened room alone. Rachel had warned that Dean would probably sleep through with the drugs they’d given him, but she would bring them both an evening meal later just in case. He moves towards his brother’s bed and takes the seat that’s become a familiar resting place for him over the last few weeks, suddenly feeling exhausted.

“Shit, Dean,” he mutters, dragging a hand across the smattering of stubble on his lower jaw and studying his sleeping brother’s form. “You were doing so well, man but now... Now I think we’re screwed to hell.”

With Dean out of it, Sam can say the things that he can’t say to his brother if he were awake. It feels cathartic.

“Before they could find me they had to make decisions to keep you safe. That means someone else is responsible for deciding what’s best for you, and tomorrow I think they’re going to recommend that when you leave here you should go to a psychiatric facility.”

His voice wavers at the thought of his brother, traumatised as he is, being forcibly placed in such an environment. He feels like he’s failed.

“I’m so sorry, Dean. I don’t know what else to do. We could run, but I don’t think you’re ready for that, man, and I don’t wanna risk hurting you. You... you deserve better, Dean, but I don’t know how to convince you that you’re not still in Purgatory.

“You’re so much better at this than me, Dean. When I was hallucinating Lucifer and couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t you knew exactly what to say. _‘Stone number one’_ you said, told me I had to build on that, told me I had to believe _you._ You’ve given so much, hell we _both_ have, and it’s time we caught a break. I’m scared that’ll never happen if they take you away.”

He closes his eyes, wishes Dean would just be Dean and say something like, _well what the fuck are we still doing here, Sammy? Let’s get out of here._ But there’s nothing but the echoing silence of the room split only by his brother’s rhythmic breathing.


	5. Chapter 5

The people currently seated around the conference room table had all been present at the first meeting they had held to discuss his brother’s situation. This time, though, the room feels full and a little claustrophobic. He pulls at the collar of his shirt – the neck feels too tight – and the movement catches Rachel’s eye, who has seated herself next to him.

“You okay?” she asks, _sotto voce._

The act of being directly spoken to brings him out of his trance. He glances at the ward sister and nods even though he knows he’s not fooling anyone, least of all Rachel, who has spent the last month in close quarters with all his moods and movements. It startles him yet again that someone would care enough about them to pay as much attention as she has.

“Hey, I just wanna say thanks, for everything, I mean. You’ve done so much for Dean and for me... Just, whatever happens I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies, giving his hand a quick squeeze. Dean’s social worker indicates that they should make a start and together they turn toward him.

The welcomes and introductions are completed quickly. Officer Baines requests to start, citing a need to return to work and, by the expression on his face, a desire to get away from the situation generally. Sam figures the lack of updates over the last few weeks indicates the police are still drawing big, fat blanks on how Dean came to be so badly injured and are reluctant to admit their lack of progress in the case.

“Well, unfortunately, we haven’t been able to locate Dean on any of the CCTV cameras around the alleyway he was found in and have not located any witnesses, so we’re still unable to say where he came from or how he came to be there in the first place,” the officer says, glancing at Sam.

“The case has been scaled down to myself and one other officer. It won’t be closed but there’s unlikely to be any further progress until we can get a statement from Dean himself.”

Everyone now seems to be waiting for Sam to react, some with wary expressions possibly expecting anger. However, he meets the policeman’s gaze and nods. “I appreciate your honesty, Officer Baines and the efforts you and your colleagues have gone to so far. When Dean is better, hopefully he’ll be able to shed more light on what happened to him.”

The policeman thanks him, clearly more than a little relieved that Sam hasn’t gone off at the deep end in response to his disheartening update. It’s agreed that his input is not required for the remainder of the discussion and he excuses himself.

“So shall we go with a medical update next?” the social worker says, glancing around the assembled group to check this is okay with everyone. Everyone nods. Dr. Williams clears his throat and glances down at his reports.

“Thank you. Well, Dean continues to make pleasing progress with his physical recovery. He’s steadily re-gaining weight and recent blood tests indicate that his liver function has improved slightly. The situation hasn’t changed with regards to the surgeries he would benefit from, but there’s no rush for them either. I still think it would be better to hold off on them until Dean himself can decide what he wants to do.

“Sam reports Dean is still having some problems with his eyes and cannot comfortably tolerate either natural daylight or artificial lighting. For the most part we’ve controlled this within his environment, but when that’s not been possible Sam has persuaded him to wear dark glasses. This seems to have helped, but so far we’ve been unable to ascertain the source of his discomfort.”

He obviously doesn’t want to say that there’s a possibility Dean’s eyesight problems might be psychosomatic. Sam is grateful for that since he’s probably got a hard enough job on his hands convincing Dean’s social worker that his brother’s psychological state is improving.

“Thank you, Dr. Williams,” Christopher Ives says before he turns his attention towards Rachel. “Ms. Peters? Would you like to add anything?”

Rachel smiles and nods, her hands clasped in front of her on the table. Sam studies her profile, willing her to fight in their corner.

“Well, obviously, Dean’s situation continues to be a complex one, but there have been a number of improvements. Aside from the occasional... issue,” she says, “he’s made good progress, which I feel is mainly down to Sam here.”

She glances across at him and smiles. “Sam is patient and persistent with him and, because of that, it’s possible to see Dean starting to emerge from almost complete passivity. I think that, with time, and Sam’s support, he’ll make further gains.”

She stops there, leaving no one uncertain about her views on the matter that is undoubtedly the next topic for discussion. Sam meets her gaze, determined to convey his gratitude with a look until he can do it with words later. He’s momentarily lost in thought when he realises that the social worker is speaking again.

“—so we now need to come to agreement about where Dean goes to next. Sam, I believe you have secured a residence here?”

He’s slightly taken aback with the social worker’s apparent positivity. “Yes, I’ve rented a place about an hour’s drive from here in Surrey. It’s a farmhouse just outside the village of Bramley; I chose it because of the rural location and it’s rented by the month so we can stay as long as is necessary, until Dean feels he’s ready to go home.”

“That’s excellent. And I trust you’ll still be able to access any outpatient appointments when it’s decided that Dean can be discharged?”

Sam frowns, confused. “I thought it had already been decided that Dean was to be discharged? Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Christopher smiles, the expression apologetic, as if he’s sorry Sam’s a bit dense. “Oh, he is; I’m referring to when he’s discharged from the inpatient unit.”

“ _What?_ What happened to coming to an agreement?” He can feel his blood pounding in his veins and it’s a struggle stop it from igniting his emotions.

“Sam, I appreciate this is a difficult situation for you. I’m not doubting your devotion to your brother and his recovery, but there are factors that we simply can’t ignore. Dean has clearly been through a deeply traumatic experience: one that has rendered him mute and so terrified that he finds it difficult to be around other people and leave his room.

“Because of that I’m afraid I remain unchanged in my view that Dean’s welfare needs to be carefully supervised. He needs protection—”

“— Which I can give—”

“And frankly, Sam, people need protection from _Dean_. I’m aware when he has been violent he’s acting in what he perceives to be self-defence,” the social worker says quickly, holding his hands up – whether to placate Sam or defend himself from a potential right hook, Sam isn’t sure – “but even injured, your brother is clearly a force to be reckoned with, so I think it’s only right that, taking these things into consideration, Dean should be admitted for psychiatric evaluation first.

“And I can promise you this isn’t based on what happened yesterday, Sam. The fact that Dean isn’t well enough to be here after a month of excellent care from the staff here and yourself is also something that makes me think he needs more than just a devoted family member to support him, at least for the immediate future. Surely you want Dean to receive the best possible care and therefore the best chance at recovery from whatever has happened to him, Sam?”

_Emotional fucking blackmail_ , Sam thinks because what’s he supposed to say in response to that question – no?

Sam is prevented from responding by an interruption. The group’s attention is collectively drawn to the door as it starts to open; there’s a sign advising there’s a meeting in progress on the door so the intrusion must be important. When it’s Katie, Sam’s heart stutters because she’s been left in charge of his brother while Rachel is in the meeting.

It practically stops altogether when he realises that she’s not arrived alone.

When Dean steps into the room the stunned silence is broken by Rachel, who stands and immediately moves to flip the blinds closed and switch off the harsh overhead fluorescents.

“Hey, Dean,” she says warmly when she’s done, as if he _isn’t_ the last person they expected to see here. “It’s good to see you.”

The sound of Rachel’s voice pierces Sam’s shock and he stands. Dean flinches slightly at the sudden movement but doesn’t make to leave. His brother’s eyes are hidden behind the dark glasses but his posture speaks of a furious tension and his mouth is fixed in a thin line, like every fibre of his being is engaged in a battle to keep him here. In a stance Sam has gotten used to, Dean is holding his twisted right arm to his chest, his left hand gently cradling it for support. Despite Rachel dimming the lights Dean makes no move to remove the glasses.

“Dean, are you okay?” After a moment he looks beyond his brother to Katie, searching her face for answers. She finds a smile when she sees him looking, which chases away the concern her expression held previously.

“He wanted to come and find you.”

“He told you that?” the social worker says somewhat incredulously, and Sam turns sharply. He glares at the older man because seriously? It’s not enough that Dean has managed to push aside his fears to leave his immediate surroundings and has travelled through the hospital to be here, but the guy wants _speech_ too?

“He wrote it down,” Katie replies and Sam detects a similar hint of annoyance in her voice before she turns back to her patient, gently touching him on the arm. “Dean? Do you want to sit down?”

Sam pulls out a chair and Dean allows himself to be guided into it. His heart is pounding at what this can possibly mean and he slides back into the seat beside his brother, his head full of questions but his mouth dry and unable to ask any of them. It’s clear that Dean’s presence has thrown everyone; suddenly the person they’re discussing is here, made flesh and blood by his own sudden and unexpected show of determination.

For his part Dean finally removes his glasses but he doesn’t attempt to make eye contact with anyone, even Sam. Sam studies his brother’s profile, notes the muscle jumping in Dean’s jaw. He’s stunned again that Dean is here, having left his only place of safety to journey three floors of a busy hospital to find him. He’s so fucking proud of Dean right now but knows it isn’t the time to say so, not when his brother’s immediate future hangs in the balance.

Katie excuses herself. Once the door has clicked shut, it’s time to get back to business, although the atmosphere within the room has subtly changed. Dean, even as damaged as he is, still seems to have that power over people. The realisation bolsters Sam’s confidence.

“Mr. Ives?” It’s Dr. Williams who speaks, clearly feeling the awkward silence has gone on long enough. “Should we continue?”

The social worker smiles and nods, but the action is nervous, highlighted by the flush around his hairline. It’s obvious he feels far less confident with his views now Dean is sitting across from him. Sam decides to compound the man’s misery by pushing him for answers.

“So Mr. Ives, do you want to explain to my brother how forcing him into a busy inpatient facility with a bunch of people with personality disorders and depression is going to help with his recovery?”

Sam smiles expectantly, feels a rallying of his assertiveness and wonders idly if this is how he’d have felt if he’d ever become a lawyer before his life derailed so spectacularly. His next words are spoken alongside a mental prayer that what he’s about to say won’t backfire: _Come on, Dean. You need to help me out here._

“And if he’s not committed any crimes, then surely Dean should have some kind of input in what he feels would help him best?”

“I agree.”

The social worker looks about to argue, but Rachel speaks first. Dr. Williams appears to agree with her words as he nods as she speaks.

“I think since Dean has made the effort to be here, especially in light of how difficult it is for him, don’t you think it would be unethical not to ask him what _he_ wants to do?” Rachel suggests mildly although her eyes and smile are clearly issuing a challenge.

The social worker worries the papers in front of him for a moment. Then, flustered, he meets the ward sister’s gaze and nods. “Of- of course. Do we need to give Dean a pen and some paper--”

“I’m going with Sam.”

The voice isn’t loud, but it splits the air like a klaxon all the same. Under any other circumstances Sam knows he’d have laughed at the way the social worker’s mouth drops open but he’s too consumed by shock himself to react. He looks at his brother; Dean is now staring straight at Christopher Ives and he experiences a flare of worry that it may be a precursor to violence – this Dean is unstable enough to warrant the concern.

However, Dean does nothing more than maintain eye contact and Sam allows himself to relax minutely, keen to see how this will play out. This is the most assertive and in touch Dean has been with reality since Sam arrived in the UK and he doesn’t want to stifle it by butting in. No one else appears prepared to say anything, but while the social worker wilts slightly under the pressure, he’s not quite ready to wave the white flag yet.

“I appreciate that you would feel more comfortable with your brother, Dean, but the facility I’m suggesting would allow you to receive excellent care and individual treatment to meet your specific needs.”

Finally, _finally_ , Sam sees a hint of the old Dean when his brother raises a sceptical eyebrow in response, although thankfully Dean doesn’t go as far as asking where the social worker is going to find a therapist who specialises in post-Purgatory trauma.

So thrilled is he to see this flash of spirit, Sam decides to throw the social worker a bone, not much of one, mind, because as far as he’s concerned the outcome of this meeting is non-negotiable.

“Mr. Ives,” he says, his tone reasonable. “We appreciate everything you’ve done for Dean and are grateful that you still want to support him, but isn’t it best that Dean starts to take some control over his life?”

“Of course—”

“So how are we doing that if we continue to make decisions for him?”

The social worker opens his mouth but doesn’t have a ready answer. It’s clear he’s still torn between carrying out his professional duties and reacting to this sudden change of circumstances now his recently near-comatose charge has expressed an opinion about what happens to him next.

“We’ll attend any out-patient appointments,” Sam continues, “and you can monitor both of us if you need to, but I swear, I know my brother and I know he’ll stand a much better chance of recovering if he’s allowed to do it in his own way, in his own time.”

It’s an impassioned plea and after a long, loaded pause, the social worker sighs. He’s obviously not happy but he knows he’s not going to change their minds either.

“Okay... How about a compromise? Dean, I still feel you’d benefit from someone to support you making decisions, at least for the time being. My suggestion is to have the temporary guardianship order transferred to you, Sam but you have to agree to bring Dean to attend an assessment at the facility as well as any consultant appointments here.”

He’s going to have his work cut out getting Dean to agree to play ball once they’ve been cut loose, but it’s definitely better than the alternative. Sam nods.

“I’d be happy with that.”

“Dean? Does that sound okay with you?” Christopher asks.

Sam holds his breath; he can only hope and pray that Dean has regained enough of a grip on reality to realise that even if it’s only lip service, he needs to pay it in order to stand any chance of escape.

“Yes.”

The reply is gruff and without elaboration, but it’s enough. The social worker nods and talk turns to a future that’s definitely more agreeable to both of them.

OoOoO

Once the meeting has drawn to a close, the participants filter out of the room leaving just the two of them alone. Sam has said he’ll support Dean returning to the ward but for a moment they stay seated in silence. Sam’s lost in thought – the events of the last hour require serious processing undoubtedly – and he can only assume Dean is doing the same. Eventually he shakes his head and huffs out a soft laugh.

“You’re still full of surprises, you know that?”

Dean doesn’t react straightaway so Sam finds he has to ask the question that’s forefront in his mind.

“What made you come here, Dean? I mean, all this time I’ve been trying to convince you that all this is real and I thought I wasn’t getting through to you. What gives now, man?”

Just as he thinks Dean’s contribution to the meeting was a one-off, his brother turns and meets his eyes for the first time since he arrived.

“Stone number one,” he says simply. “You believed me then, so I’ve gotta believe you now.”

And that’s it. Dean doesn’t say any more than that, but then again, he doesn’t need to because Sam gets it; Dean might still not be one hundred percent convinced that he’s out of Purgatory and this isn’t some horribly cruel monster-induced hallucination but he’s prepared to give Sam the same chance that Sam gave him when their situations were reversed.

It’s not perfect – but for now, it’s enough.

OoOoO

They make plans to leave the following evening; it makes sense for them to head out when London will be slowing somewhat and the lack of daylight will be one less issue for his brother to deal with. Plus, Sam needs the time to finalise everything.

A car is the first order of the day and he rents one for a month. The unremarkable silver Ford Focus is a world away from the Impala’s sleek but intimidating lines, but then nothing will ever come close to that specimen of vehicular perfection in his brother’s eyes.

He then calls the real estate agent, as a courtesy, to tell them they’ll be moving in later that day. He already has the keys from when he signed the rental agreement, but he wanted to give a little explanation as to why they’re planning to arrive under cover of darkness. When his phone rings an hour later and the caller ID reveals it’s the agent again, he has a lurch of panic that something’s wrong and they won’t be able to move in as planned.

The agent assures him there’s no problem. She’s ringing because when she’d phoned the owners of the property (who also happen to be the nearest neighbours) and explained about the new tenants arriving that night, the owner had insisted on taking round some supplies for them: milk, bread, tea and coffee, that sort of thing and ensuring that there were lights on so that the house looked welcoming.

The agent seems a little nervous imparting this information, presumably since Sam had been at pains to point out that they needed a property that would afford them privacy for his brother’s recovery, but Sam reassures her that the gesture is appreciated. He asks her to thank the owners for them until he is able to do it himself in person.

With his preparations complete, the passing hours bring a creeping anxiety. It only seems thirty seconds since they were celebrating Dean conquering his fears to leave his immediate surroundings and now they’re expecting him to up sticks completely. Sam stops thinking about it when he realises that every new hurdle he thinks of that he hasn’t considered yet makes him worry more.

Dean is quiet throughout the day; he hasn’t returned to complete silence but his replies to Sam’s questions are mostly monosyllabic or dealt with via gesture where possible and the number of words he says to anyone that isn’t Sam can be counted on one hand after several of the fingers have been lopped off.

After lunch Sam digs out some of the clothes he brought with him for his brother. Dean has always worn layers like armour. When Rachel’s helped Dean into the familiar garments, Sam, finds it hard not to just pretend that Dean is okay because he looks the part again. The way the shirt and jeans look baggy on Dean’s normally stocky frame, however, serve as a sobering reminder that they cannot just slip back into their old lives as easily as Dean has donned his old clothes.

Dean also accepts the offer of the arm sling. The accessory keeps his right arm bent at the elbow and cradled to his chest and frees up his left hand, which has been almost always engaged in supporting the injured limb.

Once ready, Dean sits by the window in his room, dark glasses masking his eyes and the keys to the Impala held firmly in his grip. Sam doesn’t comment on his brother’s obvious need to hold onto them.

Dr. Williams stops by to officially discharge Dean although he states firmly that he’d like to see his patient again in two weeks’ time to check he’s still gaining weight and recovering as expected. The appointment has been scheduled to coincide with the interview Christopher Ives insisted on before he would allow Sam to become officially responsible for his traumatised brother.

The thought of getting Dean _back_ here once they’re hopefully settled in Bramley feels insurmountable, but he doesn’t say anything for fear that they’ll insist Dean stay somewhere closer and more... institutional.

By evening, Katie has come on shift. Normally Rachel would leave at that point but she stays tonight, changing out of her uniform and coming back onto the ward to join Katie at the desk as they await the moment that their patient leaves his room for the last time. Dean has already accepted Rachel’s offer to walk down with them to the car, which Sam is infinitely glad for.

It isn’t dark at half past nine, but the light is fading enough for Dean’s glasses to allow him to cope comfortably. Sam fetches the car. He’s been given permission, so he parks at one of the hospital’s service entrances so that Dean doesn’t have to negotiate London’s streets, then heads back up to the ward, his heart pounding. _This is it,_ he thinks, _we’re leaving_.

Dean is waiting in his room, silent and expressionless with their bags at his feet. He looks up when Sam enters, but the movement is slowed, confirming that the benzodiazepines his brother was offered earlier have kicked in nicely. Dr. Williams had had the foresight to prescribe a course of drugs, a combination of mild sedative and anti-anxiety medication that will almost certainly be needed to assist Dean through the challenges ahead.

They’ve both received the lecture on sticking to the recommended directions to prevent accidental overdose; Sam has the feeling that the advice was mainly for his benefit, presumably in case he thought there might be any possibility of an overdose of the non-accidental variety. The thought had caused his stomach to lurch hideously, but he appreciates the heads-up all the same.

“Hey, man. We’re good; you ready to go?”

He thinks for a moment Dean might be about to refuse, but then his brother nods and Sam lets out the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding.

“Come on then. I think your fan club is waiting to say goodbye.”

He grabs all the bags and waits while Dean gets to his feet before they head out. Dean doesn’t hesitate at the door like he used to when they first started going on their walks, but neither can his gait be described as determined or purpose-filled as they head down the corridor together. When they come into view of the nurses’ station, Katie and Rachel are waiting, their expressions lighting up at their arrival.

He knows they’re used to goodbyes. Hospitals are merely revolving doors: temporary places of shelter for their patients whether the destination after them is home or a cemetery plot, and when he and Dean have gone there will be others to claim their attention. But he also knows that his brother will haunt them, whether it’s the broken man rushed in that night or the mystery of how he came to be so badly injured.

“Hey, guys,” Rachel says as she moves around the desk. “You’ve got everything?”

“Think so,” Sam replies with a smile. He dumps the bags on the floor beside him. Glancing across at Dean, he wishes he could get a read on his brother.

“Still, it’s not like you can get rid of us so easily; we’ll be back in two weeks.”

“Good. We’ll definitely miss you both,” Rachel says, turning back to Katie who nods and smiles.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he says, knowing Dean agrees with him even if he’s not about to say so.

“What you’ve done for us... I wish there was some way we could repay you beyond a thank you card and chocolates.”

“No need,” Rachel assures him. “Although the chocolates were gratefully received.” Her humour fades but her expression remains fond.

“Just concentrate on taking it easy, the pair of you.”

A beeping from behind the desk alerts them to a patient who has pressed their call button. Katie says her goodbyes before going to answer the call, receiving a hug from Sam and a nod and quietly spoken ‘thank you’ from his brother before she disappears onto one of the wards.

“Shall we go?” Rachel asks, glancing at both of them.

Another nod from Dean. Sam grabs their bags again and they head for the elevator, his heart rate stepping up a gear in nervous anticipation. They’re in luck though; the elevator sails cleanly to the lower basement without stopping at any other floors. As the doors open, their car is visible and Sam exits first, with Rachel holding the button until Dean is ready to step out.

He can see the tension in the set of his brother’s shoulders and despite the medication Dean is breathing more heavily.

“Dean?” Rachel’s voice cuts through the silence. “You ready? Just go in your own time.”

There’s no way to tell for certain with his brother’s eyes hidden by the glasses, but Sam recognises the other subtle clues that tell him Dean is angry with himself at this perceived weakness. Sam hates that Dean won’t cut himself some slack, but he also knows that Dean _needs_ that anger to push himself on.

“I’m just gonna put our bags in the car,” he announces, catching Rachel’s eye. He moves on ahead.

He’s stashing the last of the bags when he realises that Dean and Rachel are almost upon him. To his surprise, Dean suddenly lifts his glasses and the look he gives the car is one hundred per cent pure Dean Winchester scorn. Despite his brother’s obvious disapproval at his choice of transport he can’t help but smile.

“Wheels are wheels, man.”

“Maybe in your world,” Dean mutters and it’s _so_ fucking good to hear his brother’s voice again.

Rachel laughs. “Are you two going to need a referee?”

“No,” he replies with a grin. “Not unless Dean’s planning on breaking out the Nair again.”

The nurse’s eyebrows pull together forming an amused frown; this is clearly a private joke. She doesn’t look the least bit put out when neither of them elaborates.

“Well, you boys better hit the road,” she says, turning to Dean first. Sam knows her first instinct will be to hug him – nurses always seem to have a soft spot for his brother and she’s cared for him longer than most -- but she’s sensitive as always.

“Well, goodbye for now, Dean.”

For a moment Dean doesn’t react, then he holds out his left hand and it seems he’s settled for the response he’s most comfortable with right now. She takes it between both of her hands and shakes it warmly.

“Thanks. For everything,” he says and despite his gruff tones the sincerity and gratitude is obvious.

“You’re very welcome.”

With nothing else to say Dean makes his way round to the passenger side of the car and climbs in. Alone, Sam turns his attention to Rachel; there’s so much he wants to say to her but he doesn’t know where to begin. He also doesn’t want to keep his brother waiting.

“Here,” he says, fishing in his jacket pocket and pulling out a crumpled slip of paper. “It’s my cell phone number. I know we’ll be back in a couple of weeks but you can call me anytime if you want to know how we’re getting on.”

She smiles and nods emphatically. “Thank you. I’ll be worrying about you boys so I’d appreciate knowing you’re both okay.”

He stoops and hugs her hard. She chuckles into his shoulder as she balances on tiptoes to return the embrace. When they pull apart he knows there’s something else he can’t leave without saying.

“I haven’t forgotten the promise I made to you, Rachel. Like I said, I’ll talk to Dean and if he’s okay with it we’ll try to explain. After everything you’ve done for us you deserve to know the truth but it’s not just my story to tell. I don’t know when that might be though, if ever--”

“ _Sam_. One day at a time, huh?”

She’s letting him off the hook, generous as always even though he hopes that Dean will allow him to fulfil his promise to her.

He can’t argue with her advice though.

Rachel leaves, disappearing back into the hospital with a final wave before she rounds the corner. With a deep, preparatory breath Sam opens the car door, climbs into the driver’s seat and looks across at his brother.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

And just like that, they’re back to where they always end up: the two of them, in a car, on the open road. If ‘home’ is about familiarity, then it’s no wonder his heart lifts as he guns the engine and the miles fall away behind them. It’s a scenario he thought might never happen after Dean disappeared and although he’s elated that his fears weren’t realised, he’s also sensible enough to know it’s different this time.

Dean is damaged and it’s a fact that this time, the open road isn’t taking them onto the next hunt. It may _never_ take them onto the next hunt, but for now, he’ll settle for the two of them alive, united to face the challenges ahead, and sharing the same airspace in a way that’s as close to home as they’ll ever get.

**The End**

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